The Malfoy Case
by natida
Summary: The trials for suspected Death Eaters involved in the Wizarding Wars have begun, and Draco Malfoy finds himself trying to hold together what is left of his family and his fortune, while struggling to escape the looming, almost inevitable future of a lifetime spent in Azkaban. But there is one person who might not have given up completely. -Updated weekly-
1. Chapter 1

The fireplace crackled sharply, cutting through the silence. The hall seemed to ring with emptiness.

"You need to at least try this time around."

His voice sounded hollow. The house felt hollow. Her expression was the epitome of hollow.

Around them, the drapes hung low over the windows, and the stained glass of the skylights above was enveloped in cobwebs, but even the shadows that spread over the floor couldn't quite hide the spaces where all the ancient furniture used to sit. The footprints of their dragged bodies had left marks of dust on the once polished floor, and he air seemed to hang heavily, hardly making an effort to carry his voice.

The tall columns and tapestried walls were now empty, the paintings leaving gaping black holes everywhere they hung. His ancestors had long retired into the walls, taking their sinister stares with them. He often found himself wishing he could do the same.

It was just a house, now. An old, faded picture of ancient memories that guilt, pain and shame had worn out into a decrepit ghost. Just a vast, empty house, whose old role of a mother had been buried under a short, but unforgettable career as a prison.

"The china," he said, almost like he was baiting her for a reaction. He waited for a flinch, a flash of resentment, anything.

Nothing.

Beside them, the fire flared slightly, casting drunken, bloodshot light onto her pale face, and the bag in his hand felt impossibly heavy. Her eyes seemed to see straight through his shoulder. When had he grown taller than she was? It must have happened years ago. He couldn't remember ever noticing it before now.

The watch in his pocket was ticking away, and every second brought new weight to the bag in his hand. He forced the words out one more time.

"Please, Mother. At least try."

And turning away from her, without even glancing at her in some wistful hope of a response, he seized a handful of the grey powder from the bag and threw it into the towering fireplace, reaching to pull his mother into the flames with him.

One last glance into the room made him regret it; the bright green flash of the flames against the alabaster floor made him want to throw up. He clenched his jaw tightly as the world began to spin and he hoped, in a swift, sickened thought at himself, that his words hadn't sounded quite as much as begging as he felt they had.

…

"This is ridiculous." Ernie Macmillan ran his hand through his hair in frustration, glaring down at the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and splayed his hands on the shining wood. Then he turned his head to look at the woman to his left. "The case is practically closed; there isn't a soul in that courtroom that believes otherwise. The jury has known the truth since 1973! Even Howard knew it! Prolonging this trial any further would simply be preposterous."

"The very fact that Perkins abandoned his client is proof enough that the case cannot be decided on with so little evidence to stand on."

Macmillan scoffed. "'Little evidence'? I beg to differ! The only evidence there has been little of is that of Malfoy's innocence. And with absolutely no argument being made on the accused's part, I believe the decision will be an easy one."

"That's the very reason for why I'm replacing Perkins," said Greengrass, her blue eyes flashing as she turned to the three seated at the table. "Minister, my client's representation so far has been handled in a way which was, frankly, quite mediocre. It would be unjust to proceed to the jury with no decent defense having being made. My client is quite clearly mentally unwell and is yet to recover from the trauma-"

"Well, if it was an issue of dealing with _trauma_, then I believe some of the victims-"

"Please, Mr. Macmillan," Kingsley Shacklebolt interrupted, his deep voice calming some of the tension in the room. "There is some logic in Miss Greengrass' objection. The Wizengamot has not, perhaps, gotten the full picture of the accused's motivations, given the lack of response before the witness testimonies."

"I'm sorry, Minister," Macmillan put in, taking another deep breath to calm his irritation. "But Perkins could present no hard case in favor of the accused after nearly three weeks of time. I mean no offense to Miss Greengrass here, but two hours' notice is hardly enough time to make a case. Either we reschedule or the jury makes its decision in the hearing, this very day. That is without even delving into the fact that Malfoy is clearly unwilling to participate, which in my opinion is a waste of time for everyone involved."

"My client's mental health is fragile, but it is of no concern to the jury as an obstacle to the trial," Greengrass said firmly. "The demonstrated lack of participation is mere proof of the emotional commotion that was suffered. It is all the more reason to be open to the possibility of rescheduling the hearing-"

"How are you going to get words out of that mouth when you haven't even had a chance to speak to your client? It _must_ be rescheduled, if not canceled altogether! Merlin, Greengrass, it's glaringly _obvious_ where the blame lies, forget 'emotional commotion'…"

Another voice cleared its throat at the Minister's side. Percy Weasley looked up from the parchments he had been poring over for the last few minutes. His expression was grave from under his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm afraid a rescheduling would be impossible. There is only one hour open this week; afterwards the Wizengamot is to be present at Courtroom 3 for the hearing of Bogrod the Goblin. Either way this trial cannot extend itself further than a fortnight; should you want to reschedule it, the next time would be the last."

"Can I take both?"

Macmillan threw his hands up in the air in resignation. The Minister almost seemed to smile with amusement as Greengrass fixed her earnest gaze on Percy Weasley.

He looked taken aback, and turned to look at the Minister in askance. Greengrass explained herself swiftly. "Let today act as a response to the witness Macmillan has brought with him; I'll work with what I have. But it's probable it won't be enough to set up a proper defense. If the need arises, can I call for an extension next week?"

"It won't be enough time to clear a Malfoy," Macmillan murmured under his breath. She ignored him.

"We'd rather it didn't come to that," said Bill Weasley, from the Minister's other side. His scarred face was slightly contorted with a frown. He sighed. "But I'm afraid that it might indeed be necessary to prolong the trial. It wouldn't do to have the Wizengamot accused of injustice, especially not at this time. Though Malfoy is hardly in a position to negotiate, we must go along with Miss Greengrass on principle."

He and the Minister met Macmillan's gaze almost apologetically, and the prosecuting barrister took a few steps away from the table with a resigned sigh, taking off his glasses to clean them on his grey robes. Greengrass had a small smile of triumph on her lips.

"Thank you," she said, collecting her briefcase from a nearby desk. She turned back at the sound of Bill Weasley's voice.

"Please prove this to be the right decision, Miss Greengrass."

She gave a short nod. "I will."

Macmillan followed her out of the room, still scowling. But his frustrated expression faded somewhat as they walked down the corridor of offices together. Though they were taking opposing sides in the case, they had studied together for some time and had great respect for each other. Astoria might even venture to say she considered him a friend.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes. Enough time to finish reading up on what little Howard Perkins had left on the case before giving up on it… or 'leaving for vacations', as he had excused himself. They passed a gaggle of reporters who were being pushed out into another corridor by some guards. The _Prophet_ had gotten insufferable in their attempts to reinstate their reliability, and almost seemed to be everywhere at once. She wasn't looking forward to the announcement of her replacing the Malfoy barrister.

"Don't make this into some sort of heroic tale, Greengrass," Macmillan told her in a low voice as they turned a corner towards the lift.

"I don't follow."

"You know what I mean," he said seriously, his expression almost concerned. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you'll be saving some misunderstood villain. This isn't that kind of story. Narcissa Malfoy is guilty and there won't be anything you can do to change that fact."

She didn't say anything, but shook her head slightly as the lift doors opened before them.

…

"Draco Malfoy, with your father in prison and your mother soon to be convicted, how are your feelings on your own upcoming trial?"

"Mr. Malfoy, what are your plans for the future of the family business?"

"Mrs. Malfoy, how do you feel knowing that you may be sentenced to Azkaban today? Do you have hopes of being cleared of all charges?"

"Narcissa, have you been to visit your husband?"

"Draco, do you plan to continue you studies-?"

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Mrs. Malfoy-"

He tuned them out. Wasn't there some sort of law against this level of harassment? It had been enough on the streets those few times he and his mother had ventured out into the open… why he had thought that a good idea, he didn't know. But _here_, in the Ministry itself… the amount of reporters was unbelievable. He kept his eyes fixed in the direction he was going, trying not to wince at the blinding flashes of the cameras. Idiots.

The Aurors on either side of him weren't helping, either. It was clear that they were only trainees; most of the real Aurors had died fighting during the War, and the current experienced had better jobs on their hands than that of escorting the accused to a trial. As they were jostled through the group of screaming reporters, trying to make their way over the polished floors of the hallway, Draco caught sight of the large fountain to his left. Water still flowed in glittering jets of water, but there were no statues or engravings anywhere on it anymore. He had read in the _Prophet_ that various proposals had been made (most of them completely ridiculous: one of the most amusing involved a victorious Potter standing over the Dark Lord with the water shooting out from- well, suffice to say it had been rejected), but no decisions had been made as of yet. It was just as well, he thought. Things were controversial enough without adding statues and symbolism to the arguments.

Two years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. The first few months had been mostly spent in an effort to round up the main circle of Death Eaters who were clearly guilty of multiple crimes and, had Dementors still had a role in Magical Law Enforcement, were deserving of the Kiss. As it was, Thicknesse, Greyback, Rookwood, and nearly sixty others had been sentenced to lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban within the first week. Among them was Lucius Malfoy.

The rest of the suspects had been banned from leaving the country, and were gradually placed under house arrest as the resources were found to enforce it. During the following months, the nation-wide effort had mostly been focused on repairing the destruction the Dark Lord had caused and reinstating what was left of the trusted Ministry employees from before the War. Hogwarts had been reopened, and all Ministry Departments had begun urgent training programs to try and fill out as many positions as were possible.

It was only about a year afterwards that the trials began for those who had clearly had roles in the War but were hard to be determined innocent or guilty. There had been some considerable reforms made to the Justice system in an attempt to learn from the mistakes in the First War against Voldemort, with careful study of the cases that claimed to be victims of Unforgivable Curses, and many had been imprisoned for their involvement with the Death Eaters since the very beginning of the name. All in all, it had taken a surprisingly long time for the investigations to reach Draco and his mother.

He wasn't sure if he was grateful for that.

Beside him, Narcissa said nothing as they got onto the lift. The Aurors finally seemed to get their act together and managed to keep the reporters from filing in behind them. Their shouts and camera flashes grew farther and farther away as the lift took them downwards, towards the courtroom.

Narcissa's grey eyes were unreadable as they sped down, her richly embroidered black robes having lost none of their elegance despite the emptiness in their pockets. Her white-blond hair flowed down her back much in the way it always had, but Draco knew that it only masked the white strands that had made their way into her locks, betraying the toll time had taken on her.

Well, it wasn't just her, he thought darkly. He knew that unlike her, he looked decidedly unkempt. His robes fit him loosely and the stubble on his chin and cheeks was getting ahead of him. He knew there were lines on his face where there shouldn't be any at the age of nineteen.

It didn't really matter, anyway. His life had long since been reduced to travelling between the house and the Ministry, and who gave a damn what you wore when half the Wizarding World was convinced (and earnestly hoped) that you'd spend the rest of your life behind bars.

"Department of Mysteries." The familiar voice rang over the sound of the doors rattling open, and the Malfoys followed the Aurors down the corridors to the courtroom.

As the heavy doors swung open before them, he met his mother's eyes for a brief second. But then he was being hurried to one side of the large dungeon and she to another, and he found himself staring down at the side of his mother's large seat, her inscrutable profile looking forwards into nothing, where he had seen chains coil round his father's wrists to keep him from escaping the armed guards around him. He wondered if she felt the ghost of his presence where she sat. His arm tingled; he automatically pulled his robe sleeve well over his fingers, clutching the fabric tightly.

Above her, on the benches that rose around the room, sat the already familiar figures of the Wizengamot, most of whom he had already known since before the trial; some of them had even been considered family friends once. Many of them had once treated him as a prince thanks to the generous amounts of gold his father had donated to the Ministry.

It was strange, how things had turned around so completely.

Hypocrites.

Well, he had to admit the Weasleys weren't, despite his dislike for him. They had always loathed him and his family, so at least they would be getting some sort of victory out of all of this. And there could be a worse Head of the Department of Magical Law enforcement than the scarred redhead, despite his pathetic attempts to emulate Mad-Eye Moody's look. So far, in the trials Draco had been to (and there had been quite a few), he had seemed to be one of the most rational among the prejudiced fools in plum-coloured robes that sat on the benches.

"The Wizengamot is present today," began Shacklebolt, his voice echoing in the vast dungeon among the soft rustling of papers and shifting feet. "To pass judgment on the case of Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, accused of conspiring with the terrorist organization of Dark Wizards, self-named Death Eaters, under the command of Voldemort, in the murder, torture and other crimes committed against Wizarding and Muggle population from the year 1973 to 1998. This includes," he cleared his throat, looking down at a parchment on the desk before him. Some benches lower down, a young woman with a severe case of acne of some sort was keeping note. She looked vaguely familiar. "Assisting in the hiding and protection of Death Eaters, as well as Voldemort Himself; failure to come forth with information about their plans and whereabouts; possession of several Dark Objects; participating in various Death Eater meetings and witnessing over thirty tortures and murders of innocent Muggles, Witches and Wizards, and participating in support of the Death Eaters during the Battle of Hogwarts. To this, the accused pleads not guilty."

Draco didn't need to look around to see the faces of all those in the jury contort with distaste and rage. He could feel many of the glares on himself. He found himself focusing on his mother and on the person sitting to her left.

He was surprised to see a woman with dark hair that barely grazed the base of her neck sitting at the table of the defending barrister instead of Howard Perkins. He hadn't expected there to be a replacement; it wasn't like Perkins had exactly filled him with confidence that his mother would be cleared of all charges, anyway, so it hadn't made much of a difference. But there was something determined about her stance that almost made him feel some hope that there was a level of control on the outcome of the trial. The woman looked quite young, too, even younger than he was; she had to be very recently graduated from Hogwarts.

"We wish to make clear the change in representation for Mrs. Malfoy. Astoria Greengrass shall be replacing the recently retired Howard Perkins as defense."

Ah, so that explained it. There were nods about the room. Draco leaned back in his seat languidly. There was an Auror on either side of him, but aside from them his section of the courtroom was empty. He was thankful there weren't any reporters allowed into the courtroom so that they could theorize. There had already been that _Lonely, Poor and Soon to be Convicted: the Malfoys sit alone before the jury _article. They disgusted him.

The Minister continued. "It is as a consequence in this change of personnel that the trial has been extended to this second installment, in the hopes that new light shall be shed upon the circumstances leading to the crimes presented by the prosecuting witnesses. Last week the jury heard the testimony of Sylvia McNair and the convicted prisoner Rabastan Lestrange."

Rabastan, the backstabber. Draco had expected it, but it had still been something of a blow. He loathed the man and had feared him ever since he had seen a picture of his crazed, sadistic features, but he was still technically family. Rabastan hadn't even benefited from giving Narcissa's name. The Ministry wouldn't drop a single year from his life sentence.

"Present today are: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; William Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Percival Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Court Scribe, Marietta Edgecombe. And as Prosecuting barrister, Ernest Macmillan."

Draco couldn't help the dislike curling in his knuckles. He remembered the pompous Hufflepuff from school, and it irked him to watch the man strut around the courtroom accusing people of things he couldn't possibly understand with that vapid mind of his.

"The defense may present its statement."

The young woman stood up swiftly at the words, her eyes fixed on the assembly before her. "Members of the Wizengamot, I am Astoria Greengrass and I represent Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. My client has been accused of conspiring with the Death Eaters during the First and Second Wizarding Wars against the Dark Wizard Voldemort. To this we plead not guilty, on grounds that coercion and blackmail were being used to force her into participating in these criminal acts.

"Last week it was made clear that Mrs. Malfoy was not under the influence of the Imperius Curse, but was also never fully in control of the environment that surrounded her. Her husband, Lucius Malfoy, who is now serving a life sentence in Azkaban, made the decision of joining the ranks of the Death Eaters early in the First War, but Mrs. Malfoy herself was never counted among the elite circle of Voldemort's followers. As evidence, we presented the lack of a Dark Mark on her forearm, known to be a clear symbol of loyalty to Voldemort. With the rise of the Second War, Lucius Malfoy fell out of favor with his Master, and their son was forcibly pulled into Death Eater ranks, as punishment for Lucius' actions, as we learned by Rabastan Lestrange's testimony. Narcissa Malfoy was unable to act against the Death Eaters, out of fear for her son's life."

At least something good had come out of Rabastan's story. Greengrass thanked the jury and sat down. The Wizengamot knew all of this already.

"We call forward the prosecutor."

Macmillan stood up. "I call forward a witness: Daria Higgins. The International Statue of Secrecy, sect. 14 states that a Muggle may be brought forth as a witness on the condition that their presence is supervised by the assigned Ministry officials and spells are applied before and after her role in the courtroom is fulfilled."

There was some commotion as three Ministry officers whom Draco assumed to be Obivators, moved forwards, escorting a dark-skinned, dazed-looking Muggle woman forwards to the witness' bench. It took a few minutes until they left and she sat there quietly, swaying slightly. She was obviously under a spell, or many, to avoid shock taking over. Or perhaps it was some legal variation of Veritaserum.

Macmillan wasted no time. He was soon at his feet before her, his hands behind his back. "Will you please state your name and living address for the jury?"

The woman did, rather vacantly, her eyes slightly glazed over as she looked at the lawyer.

"Will you tell us what it was that you witnessed on the 18th of January, _?"

The woman answered automatically, almost robotically. "The death of my sister, Leah Higgins."

The members of the Wizengamot looked grave. By now they were used to listening to this sort of testimony, but it was obvious that nobody involved enjoyed the experience. Draco himself felt uncomfortable; there was something about the empty expression on her face that reminded him more of the unblinking, tear-filled, dead eyes he had seen staring up at him from his father's dinner table years ago, than of the inscrutable stare his mother continued to use from her seat on the large seat in the center of the courtroom.

"Please describe the situation," said Macmillan gently.

Daria spoke quickly, as if she had planned the entire speech for months. "It was half-past five, and my sister and I were on our way home from work. We lived in a flat someway off from the main area of town, and it was deserted at that time of day because it was a residential area and everyone there commutes. I'd dropped an earring on the gravel somewhere along the last block, so I stopped to look for it, just as Leah spotted smoke some blocks away.

"She insisted we go look, but I was worried about finding my earring, so I told her kind of distractedly that I'd catch up in a minute. She left in the direction of the smoke. It took me about five minutes to find the earring and make my way towards where she'd gone."

"And what did you see when you got there?"

"I saw six people standing around her while she screamed, and they were smiling, and she was screaming, and suddenly she just wasn't and they were gone and she was dead."

The silence in the courtroom was absolute. Draco felt sick. He tried not to think about the empty blue eyes contrasting against the dark table, or the cold slither of a reptile moving past him…

A few minutes passed before Macmillan spoke again. "And was this woman," he pointed at Narcissa. Empty eyes met hollow ones. "Standing over your sister as she screamed and then died?"

"Yes."

His mother said nothing. From where he was, Draco couldn't tell if she had met the Muggle's gaze. How had Daria avoided being seen? They must have been very concentrated on the woman they were torturing… he remembered how Dolohov got when he was having fun. He struggled to hold back an involuntary shudder.

"And was this woman, Mrs. Malfoy, being tied down or held hostage by the perpetrators?" Macmillan's question was pointed. This was his retort to Narcissa's defense.

"No."

"Thank you, Miss Higgins." Macmillan looked up at the jury briefly and then returned to his desk in silence. The Muggle said nothing.

"The defense may present questions to the witness."

Greengrass stood up swiftly. She was wearing dark robes, and her heels clicked slightly as she crossed the space between her desk and the witness' area of the room.

"Miss Higgins," she began. "Did you at any moment see Mrs. Malfoy," she gestured towards her client. "Smile or laugh at the situation?"

The idea of his mother smiling or laughing was at this point so foreign that Draco had a hard time remembering what it looked like. Somehow, the more he thought about the mental image, the less it looked like his mother. He was disturbingly reminded of his aunt's smile, which was absolutely _nothing_ like his mother's.

"No."

"Were the others around her?"

"They weren't all laughing, but most of them looked amused."

"And yet Mrs. Malfoy was not?"

"She was not."

Greengrass paused for a moment and then asked. "How would you describe Mrs. Malfoy's expression in that moment?"

"Tired, resentful, desperate." The adjectives escaped the woman's lips like a perfectly recited rhyme.

"Did she, perhaps, have a stick of this sort in her hand?" Greengrass produced her wand and held it up so that Daria could see it. The Muggle's vacant gaze fixed itself on the wand.

"No."

"Thank you." She put her wand away and turned to the Wizengamot. "You see, therefore, that my client was clearly not there out of free will or desire for violent, sadistic pleasure. There are many forms of coercion and blackmail; though Narcissa Malfoy was not being held hostage, she was the subject of severe blackmail on account of her son, whom Voldemort had already taken into his command against her will as a punishment for what he considered insubordination. She could not actively at against the violence she witnessed, nor could she refuse to participate when asked. She was an unwilling participant in these activities and cannot be held accountable for the crimes committed."

There were murmurs among the jury. Greengrass remained standing, her eyes sharp as she waited expectantly. On the other desk, Macmillan had the same expression, but Draco could tell that he wasn't pleased with the way the trial was going. The thought almost amused him.

Finally, Bill Weasley spoke up. "The jury would like to hear the accused speak."

Well, that was it. Draco threw his head back for a moment and stared up at the endless roof of the courtroom, were many torches hung in midair. He knew nothing would get his mother to speak, and if her being cleared depended on her speaking in her own defense, then she would be joining his father in Azkaban. When he finally forced himself to look back down, Greengrass had obviously reached the same conclusion. She had joined Narcissa's side, but was obviously hesitating to say anything to the Wizengamot that she might regret. She had had no previous contact with her client… there was no way she would be able to convince Narcissa to speak.

Macmillan almost seemed pleased. He stood up, his expression adamant. "Sir, the accused's continued refusal to give testimony should be evidence enough of her guilt and lack of reason. This trial cannot be prolonged any further; she has had her chance." One last try on Macmillan's part. He was looking directly at the Minister.

But Greengrass wouldn't allow it. "My client is unwell and unable to speak; the trials have proved too strenuous for her. I request an extension."

Macmillan was furious. "Three installments for a client with no defending witness?"

"On health grounds." Her expression was fierce.

They Heads of the Wizengamot had already agreed. Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed and nodded. "Extension scheduled for Thursday of the following week at three o'clock. Next time, we shall give a verdict. I suggest you find a way to get your client to talk, Greengrass."

She said nothing, but gave a short nod. Draco could see triumph in her eyes. Draco almost felt sorry for her as he watched her leave her desk. She almost seemed convinced that his mother had a chance.

He was escorted down the rows of benches towards his mother, who merely moved calmly towards the doorway. Outside there was already a crowd gathering for some other hearing to be held in that courtroom, but the Wizengamot were already collecting their things to leave; he assumed it must be a hearing of less importance. Well, at least in trials the Malfoy name was still given importance, he thought with disgust.

They pushed passed the crowd of people outside, that murmured and whispered things about him and his mother as they passed. He clenched his jaw and said nothing, walking as quickly as he could. He felt a sudden fierce desire to be back home, even if all that was left of it was a towering, dark, empty house.

"Draco."

He started and turned to push the reporter away, but then realized he was staring down at the slender Astoria Greengrass. Even with heels, she was almost a head shorter than he was.

"What do you want?"

She smiled at him coolly as she joined him, walking towards the lifts. "I wanted to arrange a meeting with you, after I meet with your mother this evening."

Good luck with that, he thought. Clearly she underestimated his mother's silence. And what did she want with him? He couldn't possibly testify on his mother's behalf… he wasn't a trustworthy source, even less now that his trial was scheduled to be next week, on Wednesday. But he only said "Why?"

Greengrass smiled. "I'll be representing you as well, next week."

* * *

**A/N: Well, there we go. It's been a while since I've written, but I've had this idea in mind for _years_. Hopefully I didn't completely screw it up... it took a ton of research to try and understand exactly how all the law stuff works in Europe and I think I understand it even less now... but the Wizarding World simplifies things! xD Anyway, constructive criticism is very welcome... any kind of feedback, really. I'll be aiming at weekly updates, because I have quite a bit of free time now that I've graduated. Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

He set down the glass with a thud. The mirror behind the bar rattled.

Outside, the moon had risen, shining hauntingly through the tall windows that were framed by heavy velvet drapes layered with dust. Draco sat at the bar in the corner, the glass of the old towering chandeliers clinking distantly overhead. It was said that Abraxas Malfoy would enchant the ceiling of the ballroom on special occasions, much as the ceiling of the Great Hall always was at Hogwarts. Now, however, it was only an enormous expanse of darkness reaching upwards, the only evidence of its ever ending being the lightly swinging chandeliers that glinted occasionally as the moonlight hit them.

The ballroom was nearly empty now, as was most of the house. Only an enchanted organ stood ominously in a corner, like a stubborn but dying man, and the shelves behind the bar corner held only a few dusty bottles of Superior Red, crowded forlornly against the wall, now abandoned by what used to be an admirable collection. Only scotch was drunk now, and those bottles stood on the bar at an arm's reach from Draco, who sat silent in the darkness.

If he closed his eyes, he knew, the sound of clinking chandeliers would become clinking glasses as toasts were made, and his grandfather would whisper _Tojours pur _for all those who would listen. The music would rise and quicken, along with the sound of sweeping satin dress robes, and Pansy Parkinson's hand would be on his knee, the low simper of her voice drowned out by his own heartbeat, his father's voice, always authoritative, always pressing, even over Cornelius Fudge's drunken laughter…

He poured himself another glass and ran a finger over the polished wood, pressing with force, though he knew it could never be dented, even with a hammer and anvil. Five years had passed since that room had heard music.

Five years.

Somewhere, a door shut with an echoing sound, and brisk footsteps rang in the corridors, growing closer. He straightened out of his reverie as lights sprang up from the torches in distant rooms, the halo of light growing brighter as the sound came closer, and it all but engulfed him as the steps came to a stop at the entrance of the vast ballroom.

He was in the corner nearest to the door. Raising a hand, he dimmed the torches and took a mouthful of his drink.

"Well, it's still large, though it's hardly as I remember it," said Astoria Greengrass as she looked around her. Still in her courtroom robes and high heeled shoes, the fatigue was barely visible under her mask of professional enthusiasm, but shone through slightly at the sight of the abandoned glory of the past.

He didn't know why he was surprised that she remembered it. She was, after all, a pureblood and a Greengrass. Every respectable Wizarding family had seen the Malfoy ballroom at least once. He looked at her from over his shoulder.

"How old were you?"

She turned to look at him. "Probably eleven or so."

He exhaled a sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, well… things look different as you grow older."

"They do indeed."

He looked down into his glass, running a finger over the edges. "No luck with Mother, then."

"No," she said calmly, and without waiting for an invitation, sat down two seats away, turned towards him, the mix of dim firelight and moonlight making her blue eyes shine with an eerie mix of silver and gold. "How long has she been this way?"

Draco shrugged. "About a year, maybe a bit less."

"And she doesn't talk to _anyone_?"

"Well, I can't speak for the House-Elf, but I suppose she's even found a way around that. She doesn't say a word to me. Not that I'm complaining," he added. "It's certainly more pleasant than her constant nagging."

Greengrass seemed amused at that, and she looked up into the seemingly endless expanse above them. "It's quite a remote set of rooms you've led me to."

He said nothing for a minute. Then, after downing his drink, he responded. "I like it best here; further from _them_." He jerked his head towards the windows, but he knew she understood what he meant. Two Aurors lurked in the gardens day and night, watching the entrances. Guards to go with the prison Malfoy Manor had become.

He didn't tell her that he also liked it best in that wing of the house because of the five years of separation it had from most activity; no snakes had slithered here, no dead eyes were staring up at him from its marble floors.

"I can't use your mother's silence as defense," Greengrass said suddenly, breaking the silence. "It's well known that she was in full possession of her abilities during the War, so she can't plead innocent on grounds of mental instability." She sighed. "And I think it's quite clear that she's not mad at the moment. It's more like she's just… given up."

Draco chuckled coldly, his eyes fixed on the dusty wine bottles huddled in the corner of the shelf. "Can you blame her?"

"It's too early to give up."

He almost laughed. Turning his gaze to her, he stared at her with snide amusement. "Really, Greengrass? You honestly think that my mother stands a chance against the Ministry? I don't blame her for giving up. There's no point to a trial anyway."

"Of course there is-"

"No, there isn't," he snapped. "Nobody in their right mind is ever going to vote for a Malfoy to be cleared of all charges. Everyone knows what's going to happen. We picked the wrong side; we lost. We were all fucked the moment our names were read out."

Greengrass didn't seem fazed. "I don't agree with you."

He snorted. "Then you're bloody naïve. How old are you, anyway? Isn't Daphne Greengrass your sister?"

She nodded. "I'm eighteen."

"How in Merlin's name did you get this job?"

She almost smirked. "The Ministry held a parallel Law Program on my Seventh year, and then I spent six months training. Three more months and I'll have a permanent position."

"So my mother and I are being defended by a kid fresh out of Hogwarts."

"At least it's a kid who actually graduated."

Draco snorted. "Touché."

She eyed him coldly. "You get what you get, Malfoy. You already tried a firm and they turned you down."

Not for lack of money, he thought angrily. Frightened, biased idiots. "And why didn't you?"

Greengrass shrugged. "You're an interesting case."

He smirked. "It was this or nothing, wasn't it?"

She remained silent, but held his gaze for a few seconds before looking away. "If we win these cases, then they'll be a stunning new addition to my résumé."

"Except you'll be unofficially labeled as a Death Eater accomplice."

"Nowadays all pureblood families who remained neutral default as Death Eaters. It wouldn't be much of a difference." She sighed, and reached for the briefcase she had left on the stool beside her. "Draco, we need to talk about this. Your trial's next week."

"So's my mother's. You should focus on her."

"I'll find a way to get her to talk, don't worry." The matter-of-fact way she said it was almost unnerving. "But we need to talk about you."

He sighed and turned on the stool so he was fully facing her. She had that hard, determined look in her eyes shining out from beneath her straight black hair.

"Greengrass, there's no point. You're wasting your time."

"No, I'm not. Carlotta Selwyn and her son Blaise were cleared with only one hearing despite their friendship with Death Eater families; it doesn't matter how people feel about you, it's about making a good defense."

"That's because Zabini's mom was actually smart enough to maneuver through the War without getting involved with either side. And they have proof of their neutrality. It doesn't matter what people think of them if their evidence is indisputable, but in my case-"

She ignored him. "I know you did most of the things on this list, if not all of them," she said, reaching into her briefcase to pull out a quill and many rolls of parchment. She pushed one of the rolls towards him. "What I want to know is the motivation behind it. I'm guessing your situation was similar to your mother's, but it's harder to work with, since you have the Mark on your arm."

He clenched his jaw as he glanced over the paper, and tried not to reach for his arm and scratch at it. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. His scorched skin tingled, as if to remind him that it existed. He pushed the parchment away from him; he already knew what it said.

"I was sixteen," he bit out. "But it's not like that's ever stopped them when it comes to chucking people into Azkaban."

"The Wizengamot is being more sensible nowadays."

Draco snorted. "Please. It's made up of half of what's left of the Order of the Phoenix. Most of them would've had me imprisoned even before the War started. My father had a habit of screwing people who didn't pretend to like him. Which were, as it happens, mostly current Ministry officials. He should have screwed them over properly." He added darkly.

"True," she replied. "But even they couldn't argue a well-made defense. I just need you to trust me."

"What do you want to know?" he asked warily. "If it's true? Well, it's true. All of it. Did my father force me into it?" Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Not directly. He obviously led my family into this situation, but he never said he wanted me to join them."

"So the Dark Lord did? Was it as a consequence of what happened in the Department of Mysteries?"

His face looked so pale in the mirror; in his mind, glass shattered and spread over the floor, mixing with specks of blood. Lucius Malfoy stared haggardly up at him: a million reddish reflections. "Not exactly," he said tersely. "Well, not entirely. I'm sure that it had something to do with it. But I got the impression that it was to tie me in properly."

"Tie you in?"

"Stop me from going to the Ministry with information. He knew that as soon as Scrimgeour was in office anyone with a Dark Mark _anywhere_ would be brought in."

"So you became a Death Eater against your will."

He kept his eyes on the bar for a moment. That was where his father had set him down, from where he could look around the entire room. His first childhood memory had happened almost directly in front of him. He could remember his mother's exquisitely painted expression contort ever so slightly as she met his father's gaze, her fingers tight on his arm, her words escaping her lips in a silent storm of dismay only for his ears, in the shadow of his taller form. He had watched his father press a quick kiss to his mother's hair before murmuring some words to her; words his mother repeated to him in between soft lullabies she sang to him that night.._. _

"I was never going to disgrace the family name."

Astoria Greengrass seemed impatient. "That's not an answer."

He met her gaze darkly. "What makes you think I did any of it against my will?"

"I'm not stupid," she said. "Anyone can tell you're not Death Eater material, just by looking at you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were stupid and much too spoiled, but not nearly spoiled or stupid enough to want to have anything to do with them," she said. "I think you might have even sided with Dumbledore if you'd been brave enough. But that would have been stupid."

He just stared at her.

…

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

"I'll see myself out," Greengrass had said flatly at the end of their interview, and he had been left sitting on the barstool, watching her thin figure disappear into the corridor outside, not really sure what he thought of her.

_Jonathan Greengrass is a clever businessman, _his father had told him years ago, when they had passed the wizard with a dark moustache in Gringotts. _He was not graced with vast fortune, as a result of his father's rotten gambling problem, but he has done well with his business and has kept his bloodline pure. I am glad to count him among our allies._

Greengrass. Draco hadn't had much of a relationship with the family otherwise. He remembered seeing the wizard with the moustache a couple of times in his father's study, along with other businessmen, but nothing in particular had struck him as interesting. His eldest daughter, Daphne, had been in his year at Hogwarts… one of Pansy's gang, who seemed rather airheaded, perhaps even more than Pansy herself. She had been relatively attractive, though, again, nothing about her had seemed very interesting.

He had moved to the large windows after a few minutes, and had pressed a cold hand against the cold glass, wiping off the dust to look outside. He had watched her leave through the tall gates, small but quick in her gait, ignoring the guards that stood near the entrance of the house. And he had found himself intensely confused about her motivations.

"You despise her, don't you," he stated, rather than asked, with a smirk. From a sofa near the fire, his mother silently glanced up at him from her book, before turning her eyes back to its pages.

They had moved most of the furniture that was left into the small sitting room on that wing of the house, and it looked to Draco like a strange collage of different moments of his life; the desk in a corner used to belong in the library, an old relic of Septimus Malfoy's Ministry work; the large couch in the center of the room had been pulled out of its place in one of the secondary guest rooms; the carpet he currently stood on had belonged in his nursery when he was a child… and his mother sat with her legs elegantly curled underneath her in the only piece of furniture that actually belonged in that room.

He glanced at the title of the book and rolled his eyes. One of the classic complicated-word novels she had forced him to read years ago. Moving towards the large couch, he set down his bottle of scotch on a small glass table.

The fire crackled.

"She's barely overage and has some bizarrely naïve notions about the way the world works," he drawled. Not that he expected her to answer. "But anyone defending this side of the argument has to be, I suppose. Still, years ago our money could have gotten us so much more."

He didn't know why he kept watching her, as if her grey eyes would ever leave the pages of the book, as if she would respond to him in some way. He couldn't explain why he kept analyzing every movement she made after he said something, as if anything could be a signal, some sort of sign that could be meant for him to understand…

There was a dull noise and a very short House-Elf appeared, carrying a tray with a glass of water, its feet barely avoiding tripping on the long, ragged cloth of the pillowcase it wore as clothing. Narcissa reached sideways and took the glass without so much as looking over the side of the book.

Draco sighed. "How long has she been here?"

The House-Elf stopped in its tracks and turned towards him, speaking in a high-pitched, female tone. "Just over two hours, sir. She came here right after leaving the study where she was entertaining Miss Greengrass, sir."

He snorted at the Elf's choice of words, but nodded. "How much longer is she going to stay here?"

"She usually asks for the glass of water right before bed, sir."

He gave another nod and leaned back onto the cushions. The Elf disappeared. His mother sipped her water in silence.

"Is this some kind of… _thing_, where you just… enjoy life before you spend it in Azkaban?" he asked in a low voice. The questions bubbled up inside him as always, pushing their way up to the surface, threatening to spill out of him like vomit.

Silence.

"You know, you'd be saving everyone lots of time if you just said you were guilty," he said, almost angrily. "Do you know how fucked up it is to go to courtrooms just to watch you sit there? All the shit I had to sell-" he stopped, clamping his lips shut, closing his eyes, almost wishing that he could feel her disapproving glare on him at his cursing. But all he could feel was his shaking fists, and the distinct feeling that for all Astoria Greengrass' inexperienced hopes, he was only torturing himself.

There was a noise and his eyes flew open, his head turning sharply. And he said nothing as Narcissa Malfoy stood up from her chair, carefully setting her book and her glass on the table, and silently slipped away towards her new room nearby.

Screw her.

What did he care about her, anyway. It's not like she had ever been much use to him.

It was just… everything was so damn_ silent_.

With a sigh of frustration, he got up from the couch and made his way to the corridor outside.

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

Why were those words engraved in his mind like a mantra? Why was he standing alone in a dimly lit corridor, still in his robes from the hearing, still unshaven, still holding that damn glass in his hand like an idiot, mumbling old refrains like a bumbling fool?

And why had the feeling of crystal shards being encrusted in his face come to mind so vividly?

"There needs to be some kind of redeeming action," Greengrass had insisted. "Even the act of _not_ doing something you could have done, or holding back…"

He found himself going down the steps of the spiraling staircase, the torches lighting up as he moved away from the old, once festive wing of the house. He felt the unpleasant tug of wands being pulled away from his fingers, arms on his shoulders pulling him away, searing pain on his face from a million glass particles…

Running his free hand over his unhurt face, he tried to smooth away the phantom pain. In front of him, the old corridor was darkened, its torches un-enchanted, and from the shadows near the purple walls, old statues stared down at him with blind eyes. He had never seen them move, but in his dreams as a child they had reached out to grab him with their stony arms, the bright lanterns in the garden outside casting their towering shadows over his body.

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

Was the old tapestry still there, somewhere? That old refrain his father had murmured to himself every time a person he disliked passed him in the street, or in the Ministry, or in a party? It had once hung in his father's study like a shining banner of everything they stood for. His father had often looked up at it, as if seeking for guidance from his ancestors.

And where was it now? The statues looked down at him; they looked angry. Draco Malfoy, defended by a Greengrass, facing a court full of Muggle-borns and blood traitors… and the ever-present, ever-infuriating voice of Harry Potter ringing loudly in the drawing room ahead, the only proof, one of the only three witnesses who were still alive…

"There needs to be _something_…" Greengrass almost looked like she _knew_. But he would never, ever, ever explain, even though the non-existent scars on his face would sting his skin forever.

Again, he heard the crashing of shattering glass, saw the bright light move towards his eyes, and the statue had finally reach out to grab him, press him against the wall, choke him in its stony grip…

…and speak to him in Theodore Nott's deep, rasping voice.

"Good to see you again, Malfoy."

Draco gasped, straining against the arm that pressed his neck against the wall. His wand was in his pocket; his limbs immobilized. The sound of breaking glass had been a mix of his glass of scotch shattering against the floor and the window exploding as Nott broke through it.

"How-" he choked out, straining against the invisible cords that rendered him useless against the tall, thin man. "Did you-"

"Break in?" Nott's breath was a warm snarl against his ear, his wand pressed painfully against Draco's chest. Behind him, Draco could see two figures against the light of the gardens outside. "You've got a shit ton of enemies, Malfoy. It's amazingly easy to get to you; almost a pleasure to do, really."

He could feel his wand pressing against his elbow, and he concentrated all his will on breaking that arm free. There was still magic in him; hexes didn't last forever.

"I bet you already know why I'm here," Nott said in his ear, a smirk spread across his hollow cheeks. "I saw the Greengrass girl pay you a visit earlier; I hope you didn't tell her any secrets of mine. We've been on good terms so far, Malfoy… I don't think you want to change that."

"I'm not negotiating with you-" Draco wheezed as the elbow embedded itself deeper into his trachea.

"I don't give a fuck, Malfoy," Nott spat. "'Cause _I'm_ not negotiating, either. It's a simple case of testifying or not. If you say a word about what happened with Scrimgeour, I'll have someone kill you before you even leave the courtroom. Believe me; it isn't hard to find someone willing to do it."

"Don't threaten me-"

He couldn't break free from the hex. His arm was throbbing with pain from the effort.

"I can, and I will, Malfoy. If you know what's good for you and your mother, you'll keep quiet. I'm not going to Azkaban. Still not convinced that I can do whatever I bloody want?" He moved away slightly, turning so that Draco could recognize the figures behind the window properly. "Take a look."

Draco squinted against the full blast of the lights from outside, but he recognized the figures standing there immediately. He grit his teeth as he recognized the two Ministry-assigned Aurors standing there.

"It isn't hard to pay people off if it means hurting a Malfoy," Nott hissed. Draco could hear the smile in his voice. "I hope this helped you comprehend the gravity of your situation."

He shoved Draco into the wall, hard, and then strode out of the corridor through the empty frame of the window, glass shards cracking under his boots.

Draco winced at the impact of his head against the stone wall, and it took him a minute to recover from the blow. By the time he had managed to straighten up again, head ringing, and felt the cords loosening around his body, it was too late. He was alone in the corridor again, surrounded by the glaring statues. The garden outside was deadly silent.

…

"Please extend your arms, stand straight and face me," the guard said mechanically. The wand hovered in the air in front of him and a halo of blue light engulfed his body and then disappeared.

"You may pass."

Draco straightened his robes and followed another grey-clad guard through the stone doorway into a larger hall that was lit with shining white lanterns. The light seemed to make all colors grey, and Draco found himself staring at his own pale, washed-out complexion against the glass window of the visitors' hall.

Azkaban had changed very much in the last few years, or so he had heard. Draco had not set foot on Azkaban before the War had ended; in his Fifth Year, when his father had been imprisoned, his mother had forbidden him from visits, stating that it would have disturbed him too much. Maybe she was right, he had to admit grudgingly. Even now, the dead, stone walls of the place made him shiver, mostly from the thought that he was likely to see much more of it, daily, for the rest of his life.

Even more so did the sight of his haggard, unshaven father sitting on the other side of the glass, his eyes looking up at him with that strange look he always seemed to have reserved only for his son.

"Hello Father," he found himself saying.

Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat before speaking. "Son. I trust all is going smoothly? Is all well with your mother?"

"She's still not saying anything," Draco said coldly.

"Yes, well, aside from that."

Draco could feel the eyes of the guards standing around the room. He was the only visitor there that day; maybe it was the oddness of the early hour. Day and night seemed far-off concepts in the grey void that the Island appeared to be.

He felt as if his voice rang about the entire prison every time he spoke. "There'll be a verdict for her next week," he said flatly. "My trial starts next week, too."

"You must say that you were put under the Imperius spell."

"Father, they have ways to figure that out now."

"Yes, well, you _were_, though… that one time Bellatrix-"

"It doesn't count, Father," he snapped.

They stared at each other from across the glass. Draco could see his own reflection mirrored exactly over his father's face. The eyes were the same color. It was uncanny.

"Draco," Lucius said, after taking a deep breath. "You hardly had the same involvement I did; the same goes for your mother. No matter the outcome, you will not be sentenced the same as I was."

"I have the Mark, Father."

Was it just him, or did his father's hand move involuntarily towards his forearm? "That shouldn't matter. Tell them whatever it is they want to hear, and they'll let you off on a lower sentence. A few years in Azkaban… it's not ideal, but it could be worse. There is only one thing you must remember, Draco."

Draco said nothing.

"Don't pick a side," said Lucius in a low voice. "Never pick a side. It saved us in the First War; it shall save us in the Second."

Draco scowled, and took a breath before speaking. "Theodore Nott paid me a visit last night."

"_Shut up_," Lucius said immediately, his eyes burning with anger. "Did you not hear what I just said? What did I just say, Draco?"

He was eight years old again, and memorizing the Royal Rules of Etiquette. His father sat on an armchair on the dais of his study, and he stood erect on the floor beneath him, repeating his father's words.

"Don't pick a side," he repeated in a low voice. From the other side of the glass, he saw his father's approval. The eight year old breathed a sigh of relief.

"_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper," _his father said, his voice ringing both in reality and in his memories. "Purity will always conquer."


	3. Chapter 3

Ernie Macmillan pushed past the small crowd of wizards at the pub entrance, a cloak on his arm as he called out his order to the bartender. It was Friday night, and few Ministry worers settled for the pu at work when more promising places for recreation were available. But it was late, he was tired, and his girlfriend had gone off to France for the weekend in search of a good business deal with a french Magical History writer. And he could use a nice drink at the end of an exhausting week.

As he rested against the bar, debating about whether he should stay there or move to one of the tables, he caught sight of a lonely figure sitting in the farthest corner of the room. Eyebrows raising with surprise, he straightened up and moved in its direction.

"Astoria Greengrass in the Ministry pub," he said with a grin. "_Drinking_... I never thought I'd see the day."

She had the grace to give him a small, tired smile. "It's just coffee," she murmured, holding the mug up as evidence.

Ernie sat down in front of her and glanced at the briefcase on the chair next to her and the folded-up _Daily Prophet_ that exhibited _Who's standing up for the Malfoys in court? _with a large photograph of Astoria leaving the Ministry. "So it was that kind of week, was it." He pulled the newspaper towards him and eyed the picture. "Could be worse," he remarked.

She shot him a look.

"I still don't think either of them are worth the effort," he continued, ignoring her expression as he set the newspaper back in place. "You should have just-"

"I don't need you to lecture me, Macmillan," she cut in coldly.

"Okay, fine. No business, then." He fell silent as the bartender set down a drink in front of him. "You just missed your sister," he added, taking a sip once the man left. "She came looking for you."

Astoria closed her eyes and reached up to rub her temple. "That's just as well," she replied tiredly. "I have nothing to say to her."

"Are you sure?"

She looked up and met his eyes; his expression had softened. She let out a resigned sigh. "Damn you Macmillan, you're so... _nice_."

Ernie chuckled, but his eyes remained grave. "I just worry about you. I can tell none of this is easy."

"Nothing's easy for anyone nowadays," she said in a low voice. "Everyone's all... tied up in their parents' mistakes."

"Or their own."

Astoria shook her head, sitting back in her chair. There were dark circles under her eyes. "Usually, one's a product of the other."

"That's not enough to clear all the guilt, though."

She smiled wryly. "I thought we weren't going to talk about work."

"Astoria, there will be other cases. You only just started; this one is too laced with politics and old sentiment... it's not good to begin with a case that's doomed to failure." His mouth curved in a dry smile. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm opposing you in this one."

"I didn't take it because I thought it would be a good starting point," she cut in, pushing her coffee to a side, frowning. "I took it because I want a job, and not one that involves me taking notes in my father's office for the rest of my life." She sighed again and pressed her hands to her face, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes. "If I give up now, then I'm proving them right and I should have followed Daphne's footsteps the way they always assumed I would."

Ernie looked at her sadly. "You won't be able to win this one, Greengrass."

Astoria lowered her hands and gazed at him grimly. "I don't have a choice. I'll make do with what I have; which really isn't a lot given this Malfoy tendency to never say a _word_ of what they're actually thinking..."

"You don't have much time left," Ernie said after finishing his drink. He leaned forwards in his chair, looking deep into her eyes. "Astoria, I respect you, and I do think you're great at this job; you have a lot of potential. I might even wish you won these cases, if it weren't for the people involved. You deserve better than to represent a family like that."

"They're not that different from my family," she replied darkly.

"Your family wasn't responsible for hundreds of deaths."

"Neither were the Malfoys," Astoria put in. "Ernie, you come from a very different branch of pureblood families than I do, so you couldn't possibly understand. I don't expect you to. But the War was hard on everyone; our branch had the unpleasant luck of already being in the spotlight when the Dark Lord came into power... True, that power might have been handed to him by quite a few of those families, but very few of them threw themselves willingly into the War. Most families made the only choice they had left in order to stay alive. I'm not saying it excuses them... but I do think I understand."

"I don't think murderers should walk free."

"Neither do I. But I do think their children should."

...

_Dear Mr. Lucius Malfoy,_

_I sincerely apologize for reaching you like this, sir, but I couldn't find a better way. It's too hard to get a Floo permit, and you know life's been hard since Sutherland passed. I wrote to you earlier this year asking for instructions regarding the plantation here down South that's been under the honorable Malfoy name for five generations; I know the business suffered with the War, but I do hope production hasn't stopped all together? As always, I've made do with what little we get out here, and I managed to get a decent harvest, but we never heard back from you after delivering them at the warehouse up North. Wages usually followed our deposits, but two days found the Fluxweed gone, and we've received nothing for nearly three months now... _

_Sir, you have always honored us with admirably prompt wages, so it feels ill-mannered to ask anything of you after years of generosity... and I wouldn't dare bother you with a farmer's common needs, but sir, life has gotten hard and we simply can't keep up production with so little income. Also I must mention, Matthew says he caught sight of Travis Mulpepper's lad nearby some days ago; it's been ages, but you remember the trouble they used to give us. I would very much appreciate if the problem might be sorted out as soon as you have time for us: I m sure you are a very busy man and occupied in much more important manners. Here in the country we always praise your generosity, and as always, wish you the best._

_Your humble servant,_

_Sally Coulson._

Draco cursed under his breath. Setting aside the parchment, he examine the Ministry seal on the corner of his already opened envelope. So they were checking his mail now.

"Ollie," he called out, his voice still sounding rough from sleep. "Where did you get this?"

The small House-Elf looked up from where it was dusting the old wooden dresser in the corner. "The Ministry Guards at the door gave it to Ollie, Sir," it said in a high, squeaking voice. "Is Master not pleased, Sir?"

"It's all right," he muttered, waving the elf away and scowling at the envelope. If the Aurors knew, then Nott probably knew, too.

He needed more firewhiskey. There were a few bottles left in the ballroom, somewhere.

Sitting up on his bed, he rubbed his eyes at the sudden onslaught of bright sunlight streaming from the window; the startling green of the world outside seemed surreal when contrasted against the opaque colors of Draco's bedroom. The small hint of white from his sheets seemed to shine from beneath the dark velvet colors and the forest green embroidered pillows.

He had fallen asleep in his clothes again, last night. The stiff collar of his shirt felt uncomfortable against his neck, but he ignored it. At least he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of dressing again for the day. "Draco, the trial's in two days," his mind scolded him in Astoria Greengrass' businesslike tone. "You really ought to look somewhat presentable."

His shoes lay tumbled over each other on the corner of the Porlock fur carpet. He slid is feet into them and walked out of his bedroom, the letter still crumpled in his hand.

The ballroom was too far, and he had more important things to do that morning, he acknowledged, holding back an annoyed groan as he strode tiredly into the sitting room, where his mother sat beside a table full of almost completely untouched breakfast.

He dropped the letter next to her platter of bacon with the writing angled towards her and took a teacup, draining its contents without a word. His mother ignored him. He felt his collar pressing against the bruises on his neck as he swallowed the scalding tea and wondered, before stopping himself, if she had noticed the angry purple mark Nott's arm had left on his skin.

Of course she didn't. The burning sensation gave way to the bitter taste of the tea.

"We're still getting Father's mail," he remarked to the silent room. And then added, "He asked about you again, last time."

Narcissa had only gone to visit Lucius in Azkaban once, when Draco had practically taken her arm and pulled her along with him... well, that was the only way she ever went anywhere out of the house, anyway. While he had tried to hold a calm conversation with his father, she had remained as unresponsive as ever, her eyes cold and distant, oblivious to her husband's attempts to speak with her.

Draco never wanted to see that look in his father's eyes again.

Was she angry at her husband? Merlin knew she had enough reason to be, but he had never seen his mother truly angry at his father... frightened, yes. Frustrated, yes. But so angry that she would refuse to speak to him?

Well, she had never done this with him, either... he pushed the thoughts away again.

He sighed and set the teacup down on the tray with a clatter, turning heel and leaving the warm room to walk out onto the biting chill of the shadowed corridor. "My cloak," he snapped at Ollie, who lurked nearby, and once it had been pulled over his shoulders, he found himself walking down the staircase again, almost retracing the steps he had taken some nights ago.

The statues in the hallway seemed to watch him with even more hostility as he crossed through the hallway once more. They had lost the ghoulish air they had had last time he had seen them, almost as if they had resigned themselves to the reality of their inanimate nature; but now they crouched on either side of him, resentment emanating from their eyes in clouds of tension that were almost more menacing than the shaky liveliness they had had the other night. If it weren't for the bright sunlight that seeped through the glass of the tall windows, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to stand it; as it was, he was thankful that his childhood nightmares hadn't involved much lighting.

The morning breeze stirred his hair and clothes as it blew through the gaping hole in the window; he hadn't bothered to fix it after Nott had left. What was the point, anyway?

He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on the arch ahead of him. Why the hell had he even had to be there that night, when he had been able to pick out Theodore Nott's thin figure among the cloaked wizards entering the Manor? If he'd only hidden his presence a bit more...

But even as he crossed the arch into the drawing room he could feel the bile in his throat and see Rufus Scrimgeour's glassy eyes, fierce and angry even in death, staining his mind's eye just like the splatters of his blood had stained the curtains.

He clutched his cloak tighter around his body and tried to banish the invasive thoughts as he strode across the dusty floors. The marble fireplace stood like a ghostly throne at the end of the room, and he could hear the pieces of glass crack underneath his shoes as he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the arch that led into the Entrance Hall. Ollie had refused to clean there; perhaps the Elf's instincts whispered the deaths that had taken place on that very floor. He could still remember his mother's shaking hand when she had finally waved the remains of the old chandelier off the floors; she had never quite managed to get rid of all the glass. It lay among the clumps of dust and cobwebs like many tiny little graves... many bodies, never properly put to rest.

Somehow, he managed to calm himself by the time he was at the edge of the house. The cloud of darkness he had felt pressing around him seemed to fade away slightly as he left the drawing room behind, and he felt like he could breathe again. The large, dark ornate doors of Malfoy Manor towered over him, and he took a deep breath as he stepped forwards and watched them swing open at his touch with a low, rumbling groan.

Immediately, he found himself face to face with an Auror, his dark robes in stark contrast to the bright world behind him.

"You can't go out, Malfoy."

Draco felt rage stir deeply within him. He couldn't help it; his hand grasped his wand through his robes and he wanted nothing more than to curse the wizard's round, sneering face into the crushing, hard stone walls. He could see the derision in the Auror's face, and he loathed the way he had to swallow down the accusations and the fury he felt... the crushing dark cloud that had risen in the drawing room reached out with creeping tendrils, trying to snatch his heart.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want," he spat, pushing past the Auror. The cloud had almost reached him; the bright lights of the walkway ahead promised some relief from the sudden urge he had to-

An invisible barrier slammed him backwards towards the door, and the impact made his head spin. For a moment he was in darkness, his mind desperate to stay afloat. The Auror's mocking eyes were almost distant; if only he could be like those pieces of glass... buried, buried...

Buried in his flesh like the chandelier shards.

The invisible scars burned.

"I've been told Malfoy can't leave the premises," said the Auror's voice, distant, almost swallowed up in the deep waters of his memory. His body was stiff; could the man really not see that he couldn't think? "You're under house arrest. That's why your Floo privilege's disabled."

Draco blinked. The parchment was pushed towards his face. Focus, focus. It almost sounded like his father's voice. _Focus, boy. Focus!_

"Read again, tosser," he somehow managed to spit out. His voice almost sounded normal. He could feel his hand again, his palm pressed painfully against his wand. "It says _Narcissa_ Malfoy. I'm free to go wherever I damn please."

He straightened, adjusting his cloak, stepping forwards. The Auror didn't pull up the barrier again; he could feel the sunlight warming his skin as he reached the bottom of the steps. The cloud dispersed. "For now."

Turning sharply, he met the Auror's gaze that was drenched in derision. He could feel the loathing shining through; hadn't Nott filled these man's pockets with gold only a few nights ago? And he still had the nerve to look down on a Malfoy, as if he somehow had the higher ground.

"The Wizarding World wants you dead, Malfoy," said the Auror, almost as if he read his mind. "And if so, who am I to deny them?"

Threats. So many of them came to mind... _I'll report you to the Ministry_, _I'll find out where you live and you'll regret crossing me, You'd better watch out next time you walk by my window_... all so fake, so petty, so _You wait 'til my Father hears about this! _The Wizarding World wants you dead.

Merlin knows I almost agree with them.

So he said nothing.

...

"We're clos- What in Merlin's name are _you_ doing here?"

Augustus Mulpepper stared at him with wide, pale eyes through the crack in the doorway. Knockturn Alley was deserted, and the only noise echoing around the old stone buildings was from the old papers, rubble and rubbish from closed businesses rattling and shuffling around the street. Nobody had bothered to fix the ruins of the War in that corner of the Wizarding World. If anything, there had been considerable effort put into forgetting that it existed.

"You know why I'm here," Draco said in a low voice. He kept his gaze hard as he watched the shorter, prematurely gray-haired wizard look around the alley, almost looking terrified.

"Are you absolutely mental?" he said furiously. "Do you know how bad you're making this establishment look by standing here?"

"Oh, because you're doing so well," Draco replied sarcastically. "I have to speak to Travis."

"Bugger off, boy," Augustus said, eyes narrowing. "I don't want the likes of you in front of my store. Mulpepper's Apothecary stayed clean durin' the War, I don't want you messin' with our reputation, gettin' your slimy Malfoy hands all over it."

With a growl, Draco stepped forward and pushed the door, hard. Augustus fell back, his sickly form too weak to hold the door against him. He fell back, face contorted with rage.

"You should have thought about that before you sent your brother to steal our product," Draco said.

"Well, well... if it isn't Lucius' boy."

The shop was almost stiflingly small; the roughly carved shelves seeming to shiver where they stood in the dimly candle-lit room. Various jars and bottles glinted, painstakingly polished clean, all around the room, and the distinct apothecary smell was almost overwhelming; even the small, grimy window on the highest corner of one of the walls didn't seem to help clear the odor. And on the opposite side of the counter sat an old man with a wrinkled hat, smoking a cigar that only added to the already rancid smell of the place.

"I've got to admit," said Travis Mulpepper, his yellow teeth smiling at him from behind the smoke of his cigar. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to walk in here all on your own. What with daddy in prison, and all."

"Just because my father isn't here doesn't mean we're going to consent to blatant robbery," Draco responded stiffly.

Travis chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure the _distinguished _Malfoy name disapproves of any sort of criminality. I bet your father was a _shining_ example of all that is righteous in our society, and he must be _honored_ to have his little boy uphold his high standards."

In the other corner of the shop, Augustus laughed nasally. Draco forced himself to remain calm. The Mulpeppers had always been scum, anyway.

"I'm not here to talk about my father," he said. "I'm here to tell you to stop stealing from our plantations down South."

The old man grinned and stretched, swinging his legs over the counter, his boots caked with dry mud that broke off and soiled the already dusty wood. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"It might have taken a while, but we got word of the Fluxweed harvest disappearing," Draco said, his eyes fixed on the old man's eyes that seemed slightly glazed over. "I'm not an idiot; you've been trying to steal from our business for as long as I remember and people saw one of your people lurking around our plantations. I'm not here to play games."

"I'm sorry," said Travis, drawing deeply from his cigar before speaking again, exhaling a rancid cloud of smoke in his direction. "I suppose we just assumed you'd have no need for Fluxweed anymore. What's it used for a lot? Oh, yeah... Polyjuice Potion. I don't think the Ministry's letting you Malfoys anywhere near that sort of ingredient... I don't think anyone's gonna get anywhere near the Malfoy business, anyway. So I must say, I don't really get what all the fuss is about."

Draco ground his teeth. "Give me back what you stole, or-"

"Or what?" the old wizard slowly lowered his legs from the counter and stood up, dropping his smoking cigar on the floor and moving towards him. He stood slightly hunched over, his eyes shining greedily in the dim candlelight. "Or you'll pull some strings in the Ministry? Or you'll call all your powerful friends in high places? Or..." he coughed, spitting phlegm on the floor. Augustus stirred in his corner, moving towards the worn mop that stood nearby. "...maybe you'll give me a nice spot of gold to help clean up the place, and we'll all part ways as friends, and you'll have your Fluxweed?" He chuckled.

"No, little Draco," he smiled at Draco. He could see rusty metal in between his yellow teeth. "No, I know Gringotts is out of bounds for the Malfoys now. It was all over the papers... Augustus might be a bit barmy, but he can read, and it's no secret to anyone that you ain't got nothing to show for yourself. So I'd suggest that you get your pathetic little arse out of my shop and crawl back to your rotting cave in Wiltshire, and enjoy it while you can. 'Cause there's nothing you can say or do that's going to make anyone forget what you are or what you done." His smile widened, and he reached into his pocket to pull out another cigar. "And frankly, it's gonna be quite a fucking pleasure to watch."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, it took me twice as long as I thought it would to post this chapter, I've just had a lot on my plate. I might still have that problem next week, but I'll really make an effort to post as soon as I can. Thanks for reading, I look forward to some feedback :)**


	4. Chapter 4

"Thanks for agreeing to meet me here."

Draco raised a pointed eyebrow, his eyes cold. "You didn't leave much space for discussion."

They were sitting in a large, empty office that had been packed with old furniture, the soft layer of dust not quite covering the cracks in the paint of the desks, chairs and shelves piled around them. The room was windowless, and the only light came from a worn chandelier that hung low from the ceiling, throwing light onto the faded maps of Great Britain that had been charmed onto the walls. From beyond the closed door, the deserted hallways in that abandoned corner of the Ministry lay silent.

Draco couldn't help but wonder if she had chosen that place because he might find it somewhat familiar.

"I know," she said with a slight grimace, though there was some sincerity lacking in her tone. "I've just been busy. I thought a different place might be a bit refreshing for you, actually."

"It's always refreshing to be chased around the Ministry by the press," he replied sarcastically.

Astoria met his eyes for a brief second, and she actually almost looked remorseful. For a moment he almost regretted his words. There was so much exhaustion in her blue eyes that it was impossible for him not to notice, despite the concerted effort she seemed to have put in covering it up; her elegant robes and professional manner could only hide so much.

"You don't work _here, _do you?" he snapped quickly, turning his eyes away from her to the dusty room around them.

She almost smiled, ignoring his tone. "No, thought at times I rather wish I did. The cubicles upstairs can get irritating…" she trailed off. Taking a breath, she met his gaze with what could only be described as determination. Draco suddenly felt a bit like a Gringotts vault that she was set on breaking into. "You know why you're here."

He avoided the subject, letting a smirk slip onto his expression instead. "You're sick of the Manor because of all the time you're wasting there trying to get Mother to talk." For some reason, the smirk didn't feel quite as satisfactory as he remembered. "It's not going to work, Greengrass."

"_Really_," her stare was persistent. "Get over yourself, Malfoy." She slid a small pile of rolls of parchment onto the old table. Something about the claws carved onto the corners of the desk made Draco wonder if the desk might have been an old donation of his grandfather's; if so, it was rather fitting to find it there, among all the ruined furniture of the Ministry of Magic. "I wouldn't be so busy if you just made enough of an effort to collaborate in order to get me _something_ to work with."

He made an effort to keep his fingers from curling into fists; the persistence in her eyes was piercing, and he pushed away the dark cloud that threatened to overwhelm him. Why wouldn't she give up? He ground his teeth. "I don't understand you, Greengrass. "

"I don't understand you either," Astoria replied sharply. "You try so hard to make it look like you don't care about any of this. But here you are, in the Ministry, on a Wednesday morning, meeting me. I know there's _something._"

The sound of bodies being dragged through his front door… he flinched involuntarily, and tried to disguise it behind a scowl. Could she hear the shrieks of his aunt echoing around the ceiling overhead the way he could? "Don't flatter yourself. The only reason I'm not at home right now is because, miraculously, the place is even more sickening than the Ministry and I guess I should just appreciate what few days are left for me to _roam about_." He couldn't help spitting the last words out, remembering the Auror's triumphant glare as he walked away from his own home.

"I heard you went to Knockturn Alley."

He didn't even have time to disguise his expression. The anger bubbled up inside him, his hands curled into fists before he could avoid it. The room spun around him for a brief second, and he wanted to gag at the memory of Travis Mulpepper's rancid breath in his face. _A pleasure to watch_. He couldn't trust himself to speak; he could feel his lips trembling against each other.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are? Is everyone in this bloody place a damn spy?"

A minute later, he realized he hadn't said a word. His lips were still pressed together, and from the other side of the table, Astoria still watched him expectantly.

"So?" he let the word slide out of his mouth slowly. He was afraid his voice might shake.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I just hope you're not doing anything stupid." She tilted her head slightly to the newspaper that sat on a corner of the table. "It was on the _Prophet,_ just so you know."

Of course it was. "It wouldn't make a difference, anyway." He looked away.

Astoria took a deep breath. The room seemed to buzz with silence.

"Okay... look..." she said, finally. "I apologize. It was none of my business." She pulled open a roll of parchment and took a quill from her purse. "Last time, we stopped just before The Battle of Hogwarts; do you think we could continue from there?"

He gave a nod, and leaned back in his seat, moving his eyes away from her. There was something about her that could somehow be unnerving.

As if she could tell, she kept her head bent over her notes, her short, dark hair framing her face like a shining black curtain. "Where were you on the 1st of May, 1998?"

It was amazing how some dates just _stuck. _The only other date he knew by heart so clearly was his birthday, and even that day seemed to pale in comparison to the heavy presence of the day before the Dark Lord had been defeated. Draco remembered it in excruciating detail.

He didn't _have_ to tell her anything, to tell the truth. There was, after all, nothing she could gain for his defense in the story; if anything, he was more likely to be adding to his list of crimes. And yet...

"I was in London most of the afternoon," he began in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the rusty curves of the iron chandelier that hung above. "Even though my parents and A-... and Bellatrix Lestrange, and anyone who had anything to do with the Potter fiasco was confined in the house, he wanted me out."

And he had been glad to leave, despite the circumstances. He knew his father would never dare to tell anyone the blame his son held for the situation; he knew his mother had probably intervened in keeping Aunt Bellatrix quiet, but it didn't mean he was exempt from the blame altogether. His father certainly made sure he was aware of exactly _how_ he had ensured the ruin of the Malfoy family.

But he wasn't going to tell Greengrass that. She knew nothing of the way he had been pushed forward to look at Potter's bloated, deformed face. Nobody in the room was present to tell the tale, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to tell it. Especially not to her. She didn't hear his aunt's accusing shrieks, didn't know how it had felt to have her press him down into the broken glass with bloody fingers while his mother screamed.

She wouldn't know.

"It was a sort of punishment, again." His voice sounded hollow. "Then again, I suppose it always was when I was sent out with orders from him. Mother would nearly go mad." The crazed, fear-driven madness was so much more preferable to whatever madness lay behind her dead silence.

"What did he send you to do?"

"It was some sort of..." Draco frowned. The light burned is eyes; he turned them to the humidity-stained corner of the wall, and sighed with frustration. "I don't know. I can't remember. I think it had something to do with some person Travers had under the Imperius Curse; there was some suspicion that he might have broken free."

"Zachary Dippet, probably," Astoria remarked, even as her quill sped over the parchment. "He was cleared of all charges in the end."

Draco nodded shortly, dismissing the information. "Well, I didn't do much. Travers was gone, so Mulciber took over. He didn't want me in the way, so he let the others do the work. It-" He fell silent. Astoria's eyes snapped up to his face.

He cursed himself. It was the same group, minus Yaxley, that had taken down Scrimgeour. Nott's thin, cruel face sprung up in his memory.

"What about it?"

Why did she have to be so clever? He busied his eyes with studying the distant lines of the map on the wall so he could avoid her gaze. The lies just couldn't seem to form with her watching him. "Nothing."

That didn't fool her. "Draco, if you have any names, _any names at all-_"

"I don't," he said shortly.

"-it could save you. You just need to give a name."

"I'm not giving any names."

Her eyes blazed. "Draco, this could be your one chance at-"

"At what?" he said bitterly. "Getting cleared? We both know a name isn't going to save me from anything."

"It might at least give you a chance."

He snorted with derision and then shook his head. "I'm not ratting people out. I'm not picking a side."

"It's not-" her voice rose with frustration, and he turned his gaze back onto her only to find her biting her lip, her eyes boring into the writing before her. He watched coldly as she clenched her jaw and then directed a forced smile at him. Maybe the tired look in her eyes was supposed to convince him; but Lucius Malfoy's forceful presence was stark against his brain, and he could feel it much more strongly than the irritation he was causing her.

Astoria crossed her fingers over the table, her quill still between them. "All right," she said calmly. "So what do you want me to do?"

Draco shrugged. "The truth is, you get more out of this than I do."

She looked at him in confusion and he smirked. "If you put up a convincing case, you'll at least get some respect from Macmillan and those other blundering idiots. I'm not trying to be an arse; like I said, it's not as if I have anything better to do. I'll answer your questions and I'm sure you're clever enough to find something to do with it, being a Ravenclaw." There was some derision in his voice at that, though it faded quickly into a darker tone. "But I'm not going to give out names, or anything like that, because it's not like it's going to make a difference."

"But _justice_."

He raised his eyebrows. "Like I'm getting any of that."

She sighed. He wondered if she secretly wanted to strangle him. Something about the way she looked at him made him think that she was probably considering it. "Fine. I won't insist on you giving names, but I would like you to try and be a bit more proactive. I need to know how you feel about the things that happened, not just the facts. If there really isn't anything that you did that could help, then at least let me put some emotion into it."

"There isn't anything."

"I know you weren't happy with the way things were going, that much is clear."

Avoiding her gaze, he shifted in his seat, studying the claws carved onto the corner of the desk. His voice was a murmur. "If I wanted to talk about my _feelings, _I'd just go to the Mental Ward at St. Mungo's."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile. "Yeah, but you see, I don't think you'd ever stoop to that, _being a Malfoy_." Was she mocking him for what he said about her House? "Honestly, though. Be stubborn as you like, I'm not letting this case fail the way everyone seems to expect it will. I know there's a solution somewhere; don't think I can't tell that you're holding things back."

She leaned closer, and he couldn't help it... he met her eyes. The irritation was gone, but her expression sent through him a thrill of something that was almost fearful excitement. "Now, you're going to continue your story. And don't leave anything out." Her lips twitched into a defiant smile. "And there's one thing you haven't been counting on... I'm not a Ravenclaw. I'm a Slytherin. And I'm winning us this case."

...

His head was pounding.

He had left the dusty hallways of that abandoned corner of the Ministry to walk into the shining, polished part of it that was crawling with busy witches and wizards. He had left Astoria sitting at that desk still, scribbling away at the parchment with a kind of fierceness that almost made him worry for her quill's fate. He wasn't sure what she was writing about. All he had really done was describe what had happened on the day of the Battle.

"So you went to the Room of Requirement on your father's orders?"

"Yes."

"I thought he didn't want you being sent on missions for the Dark Lord."

"He didn't." He had rubbed his eyes tiredly, remembering the desperate note in his father's voice. "At that point, we didn't think it would be so hard to leave the castle. We didn't know most of the students would stay; the amount of Death Eaters he gathered was mostly for show, I think. He was under the impression that the biggest resistance would be Potter and his friends... he expected Snape and the Carrows to take down McGonagall and what professors were left. The Order of the Phoenix was a surprise. Nobody thought there were so many of them left; much less that they could be contacted so quickly."

"So your father...?"

"He overheard him talking about how Potter was likely to go to the Seventh Floor looking for something, and how nobody was to let him get there. But Greyback and the lot didn't know the castle that well, and they were too noticeable in the crowd. Father knew they would be surrounded almost immediately." He hadn't wanted to go to the castle. But Crabbe and Goyle were there and already had lost most of their respect towards him thanks to his family's disgrace... and he wasn't going to argue against his father when his desperation was so evident. "Father had an idea that me, Crabbe and Goyle could go in and out quickly without much trouble, and bring Potter to _him_... thus regaining honor for our family. He was wrong, obviously."

He had described the skirmish to her, feeling almost nauseous at the memory. Astoria had been glad to hear that he had tried to stop Crabbe's killing curses; even more glad that he hadn't done any himself. "What an idiot," she had snorted when he mentioned the Fiendfyre.

"He was my friend," he had replied coldly.

Her amusement had disappeared instantly, as if she had suddenly realized what she had said, and some guilt had come over her features.

"But you're right," he had remarked with a scowl. "He was an idiot."

Crabbe really had always been an idiot, he thought as he avoided the suspicious gazes of the people that passed him on his way to the Atrium. And during those last months that he had known him, he had become a despicable and cruel one, too. Goyle was quieter, or stupider… he always had been almost blindly obedient before the nearest point of authority. But Crabbe had seemed to have undergone some horrible, silent transformation, and as the War had neared to an end Draco had been consistently more concerned that his own so-called 'friend' would become a danger.

It still wasn't enough to stop him from feeling a sharp stab of pain and guilt every time he thought of Crabbe screaming as he burned to death in the Fiendfyre.

The thought only made his head hurt more. Thinking about these things always made him sick.

Sometimes he wondered if things would have been easier if he'd only invested in some friends with brains that had actually developed properly.

The corridor opened up into the Atrium, and he suddenly felt the full brunt of what felt like hundreds of stares on him.

"Are you sure you don't want an Auror to escort you?" Astoria had called after him as he left the room. He had said nothing. He didn't need more close spectators adding to what seemed to be swiftly becoming some sort of satirical tragedy about his life.

But as he turned around the fountain in the center of the Atrium, dodging a small fleet of memos that soared past him, he suddenly regretted his decision. There were more people in that part of the Ministry than usual: there was probably something important happening that day. There was a banner ahead, just above the faces of what seemed to be thousands. There couldn't possibly be that many people in the Ministry, but his mind and the pressure of so much hatred directed towards him made them multiply into millions.

He forced himself to look up at the banners. _A Malfoy does not bow his head_. Yes, father.

A FERAL ANIMAL BELONGS IN A CAGE

THE DOG MUST BE PUT DOWN

Ah, so it was Greyback.

Greyback had nearly been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, escaping with one arm less and even more scars than he had originally had, turning his already mangled look into blatant deformity. Two years ago, he had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, but whoever was defending him before the Wizengamot had found a loophole: with new emphasis to Werewolf Rights being given by the Ministry, Greyback's case could be appealed. He was now trying to get out of his life sentence, asking to 'undergo treatment' instead.

Naturally, this infuriated… well, everyone. Though the alternatives proposed (send him back to Azkaban, lock him in the Feral Institute, sentence him to death) varied, but everyone agreed that he deserved a punishment befitting his crimes.

Draco had no doubt that this was the last Greyback would see of the open world.

But his opinions mattered nothing before the mass of people that had rallied together to protest the upcoming hearing. Draco averted his eyes from the faces that stared at him, but he couldn't stop his ears from hearing the murmurs that rose in the multitude as he walked past. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks, but he felt like he could hear the entirety of Hogwarts' Great Hall in the Atrium with him, turned against him, murmuring his guilt, spitting at him in disgust. And then the mutterings rose, like a hateful orchestra, and the people were yelling at him, shouting at him.

"Go to hell, Malfoy!"

"Murderer!"

"Lock 'im up with Greyback, see who's laughing then!"

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_. _Don't pick sides._ _A Malfoy does not bow his head._

Yes, father.

And then came Dennis Creevey crashing into him, an army of groping arms behind him, reaching to seize him in their claws. He was slammed into a pillar, and Creevey's nails were buried into his neck, pressing harshly on the bruises Nott had already left there… _It isn't hard to pay people off if it means hurting a Malfoy_. But this wasn't paid; the rage in the fist that swiftly hurled itself towards his nose was born from the heart, and no amount of gold could make it hurt any more.

_It's going to be a pleasure to watch_. He could hear Astoria's voice in his ear, twisted into Aunt Bellatrix's sing-song voice _Are you sure you don't want an Auror? Are you sure?_

And the orchestra rose in a crescendo.

Presently he realized he stood limply against the pillar, his gaze unfocused. Was the warm wetness on his face blood? He couldn't feel his nose. Beyond the walls of the bubble of silence he was encased in, he heard the distant roar of many voices. There was a clear scent of burnt stone. Had there been curses?

He looked down at himself, and except for the droplets of blood that stained the front of his robes, he seemed to be intact. Something moved in his field of vision, and an arm reached towards him, moving him brusquely away from the crowd. He resisted for a split second; was it Creevey, back for another punch? But no, it was someone else, an older man. Red hair. It couldn't be… no...

It wasn't. It was Bill Weasley.

The older wizard's scarred face came into focus as Draco stumbled forwards. He was finally in an area he could disapparate from.

"All right, Malfoy?" Behind him, Draco could see a multitude being pushed back by two Aurors, presumably Weasley's entourage. He was, after all, a Ministry Official. Draco reached up to wipe the blood from his nose. He nodded.

Weasley gave a nod of affirmation and turned away, going towards the crowd. Draco turned heel and disapparated.

...

The warm scent of cooking food welcomed Astoria into _The Three Broomsticks_ and almost managed to shake away part of the irritation she was feeling. She was late; most of the pub's clients had already come and gone, leaving behind only a small group of people and the blond-haired landlady, who was occupied clearing dishes from some of the tables.

Astoria set down her purse on a stool at the bar and sat down beside it. Ernie Macmillan had given her a friendly nod as she had passed him earlier while she was leaving the Ministry, and in the brief glance he had directed at her over the head of the Auror he had been speaking to, she had clearly seen pity.

The memory filled her with disgust.

Not at Macmillan; she knew he couldn't help it. He was just so _noble_: he couldn't bring himself to feel any resentment to his opposition behind the scenes, however much ferocity he displayed during the actual trials. She knew he thought that she had been dealt the wrong cards, and she guessed that he had also picked up on the real reason for why she had been handed the Malfoy case instead of an easier, more popular trial. The truth was, nobody wanted a member of one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' families in positions of power after the War, even if it was as a sideline barrister. Macmillan probably knew he was one of the few exceptions to the unspoken popular rule, having participated actively in the War on the right side. For the rest of them, including Astoria, the prospects remained quite dark.

No, she felt disgust at herself for letting things go this way. "Looking through libraries all day, trying to find solutions to real problems much too complicated to solve with history books,"her father had growled only yesterday. "Stop trying to save Lucius' lot; they all dug their own graves years ago."

Digging graves. It had been more of a collective effort; one that was going to result in a colossal mass grave of the children of the Dark Side, as some people were referring to them as. Draco Malfoy, Tracey Davis, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Flora and Hestia Carrow, Gemma Farley, Millicent Bulstrode... the list went on and on. Draco's case was only one of the first, and the outcome of the future trials would certainly define what became of the Pureblood families that had once been considered the shining jewels of the Wizarding World.

And as if that wasn't enough, Draco Malfoy himself wasn't helping with his bizarre resistance to receiving help, despite his seemingly unconscious efforts to help his own case, which _still_ weren't quite enough to give him a chance at getting cleared of all charges, or even giving him a minimal sentence. He already had the Dark Mark on his forearm, and the Wizengamot didn't need much more than that to condemn someone to a lifetime in Azkaban.

Still, Draco was better than his mother.

Astoria couldn't stop the sigh of frustration from escaping her lips just as the landlady moved to the bar once more, running a rag over the surface before turning to her with expectant eyes. Astoria met her gaze and was startled to see recognition in it.

"I'm sorry," the young woman stammered. Underneath the slightly wild wisps of blond hair that were escaping from the bun behind her head, she had a pretty, if rather rosy-cheeked face. She was staring at her somewhat awkwardly. "I- you look familiar and I can't quite place you."

Astoria forced a polite smile. "It's probably my sister," she replied, crossing her fingers over the bar and reciting the explanation she had given for what felt like her entire life. "Daphne Greengrass. Her hair's different, but I've been told our faces can look similar to people sometimes."

Realization came over the woman's face. "Oh, of course," she said. "You must be Astoria. I must have gone to Hogwarts at the same time as you, but I'm afraid I don't remember you or your sister very well... I must have recognized you from the papers."

Forcing her smile to stay in place, Astoria tried to push away the distinct feeling of annoyance that rose within her. Of course she had been recognized. The _Prophet_ had made an effort to keep her face plastered in large photographs almost daily, along with all sorts of theories of how the Malfoys were going to pay their way out of Azkaban. As if there was anything left of their fortune in that large, empty Manor of theirs.

"Ah yes," she said. "The _Prophet_."

She must have not managed to keep away the annoyance from her tone, because the woman in front of her grinned with amusement. "Hannah Abbot," she said, extending her hand. As Astoria shook it, she saw a friendly gleam in the landlady's eyes and her smile suddenly felt more genuine. "I'm sorry I reminded you of the papers... I know the press can be unbearable sometimes. You should have seen the mess they made when I got engaged. Well, I'm sure you did," she added with some distaste. "Can I get you anything?"

Suddenly reminded of where she was, it took Astoria a second to gather her thoughts. "Er- yes. Some lunch, actually."

As if picking up on her confusion, Hannah helpfully suggested, "We have some good lasagne."

"That would be nice," Astoria answered quickly. "And some butterbeer, please."

With a nod, Hannah left her for a moment and she was left to herself for a moment. When the landlady returned, she had a bottle in her hands and set it down in front of her.

"I would think you would want something a bit stronger when dealing with the Malfoy family," she remarked with a wry grin.

Astoria couldn't help the smirk that appeared on her lips as she took the bottle in her hand. "At times it's almost a necessity," she replied before drinking.

Hannah laughed. "What brings you to Hogsmeade?" she asked presently. "It's not common to see recently graduated students return for a visit, much less at this time of year. The nostalgia tends to take a bit longer."

"Business," Astoria replied simply.

"Oh... speaking to McGonnagal?"

"I don't think I should say," she answered slowly. "No offence."

"None taken," said Hannah brightly. "I should have guessed. Sadly, I've way too much experience when it comes to trials... I must have testified in about a dozen." As she leaned forwards to take something that was handed to her by a passing client, Astoria caught sight of a white line on the woman's jaw, almost imperceptible from any other angle. It wasn't an ordinary scar; it was obvious it came from a curse. The War had left marks on everyone.

As some of the clients left, leaving only a group of three at the back of the pub, Hannah leaned closer to her and spoke in a low voice, her voice taking on a more serious note. "I would offer my help, actually, if I had anything to say... but the truth is I never saw Malfoy do anything that inspired any trust." She bit her lip. "I would testify, too, you know... he was a prick, but I don't think he or his mother deserve the same as his father." Her expression grew dark. "As for that man, I hope he rots in prison."

Was there anything she could say to that? _So do I_ wasn't quite the answer Draco Malfoy's defense should have... or was it? Maybe Hannah could see the dilemma in Astoria's eyes, because she drew away quickly with a grin.

"Sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable, I know these times are... complicated," she suddenly looked flustered. "And I'm sorry for pouncing on you like this; I didn't even ask you if you felt like talking and so far I've just been throwing conversation at you!"

Her annoyance disappearing completely at the sight of Hannah's discomfort, Astoria smiled. "It's really okay," she said, running a hand through her hair, trying to switch into a more friendly demeanor instead of the professional one she seemed to have been wearing perpetually for the last few weeks. "I've had the most stressful week so far... it kind of helps to talk to someone whose fate isn't directly dependent on the outcome of my job."

"I'm glad," Hannah answered with a grimace. "I don't envy you. I was lucky to get a job as calm as this one... I'm not _really_ the landlady of _The_ _Three Broomsticks_." Her tone was almost conspiratorial.

"I was wondering where Madame Rosmerta was."

"She went off to Egypt with her sister for the holidays," Hannah explained with a laugh. "I never thought she would do such a thing, but here I am. And she pays well, though I can't tell you how many times she's sent me threatening letters warning me not to break anything." She grinned. "It's been rather hard, with my fiancee having a tendency to smash almost every single thing he touches."

She walked away towards the kitchens, returning a minute later with Astoria's meal. "By the way," she said in a low voice as she brought her a napkin. "You might want to have a talk with him. Neville Longbottom; he teaches Herbology at Hogwarts... and he was in Draco Malfoy's year. He might have some stories to tell."

* * *

**A/N: The reference to the Feral Institute is meant as a nod to my favourite (and first favourite) fanfic ever, 'Imperius' by Pallas. Sorry again for taking long to upload this chapter... I hope the length makes up for the time it took. As always, reviews are most welcome! See you next week xD**


	5. Chapter 5

"I don't understand."

The words floated up above his head and were lost in the vast expanse of the ceiling. He was lying on the floor of the ballroom, not quite sure of how he had gotten there. His throat burned with the taste of alcohol and if he moved he was quite sure that the noise of cracking glass wouldn't only be in his head; he was somewhere near the pile of empty bottles he had only just smashed to pieces.

As he floated in the heavy, murky waters of his thoughts, Draco felt pleasantly disconnected from it all. The sunlight pushing through the windows was almost ethereal and beautiful, the thick columns of the large room almost majestic.

"I don't understand, _sir._"

Somehow, his lips formed the words even though he had never said them. Somehow, his parents waltzed past him regally, their feet hovering just above the broken glass. Somehow, Travis Mulpepper choked on his own cigar nearby and fell away into piles of Fluxweed, while Theodore Nott ran off into the shadows of the ballroom, tripping over his own robes... Somehow, Astoria Greengrass laughed a melodious laugh just overhead, her hair tousled as she smiled at him in a way she never had...

Somehow, his memory tugged at him so violently that he closed his eyes...

...And stood up straight again in his father's study, young and only starting the growth spurt that would leave him tall and lanky. His father stood on the dais, his eyes fixed on the family crest emblazoned on the tapestry behind him.

"I don't understand, sir," Draco repeated, reluctantly. On the floor, in the ballroom, Draco mixed the memory of the words with the alcohol in his mouth.

"What is there to not understand?" His father fixed him with the same cold stare he had always used when addressing him. The green jewel of the brooch on his chest almost glowed in the bright white lights of the lanterns overhead, matching the shining emeralds that gleamed in the eyes of the serpents on the tapestry behind him.

"Why you would do something like that," Draco drawled, leaning against a shelf, his confusion masked behind a sneer. _Father always makes things sound so important and regal, as if everything he does is because he's so _wise. "It sounds like a stupid thing to do."

His father's eyes momentarily glowed with fury. Draco couldn't quite help the satisfaction that showed in his expression.

"Do not address me with such words," Lucius spat, eyes flashing. "You know nothing of how the world was in those years. What I did for us, saved us! You are alive because of it."

"You have to pay the Ministry millions in gold so that they respect us, and you still can't make business deals with-"

"Anybody who rejects us on those grounds is not worth making business with," Lucius said stiffly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Father, you've always said that a Malfoy bows to no one. If that's so true, then isn't it a bit disgraceful to have been a _servant _to Voldem-"

The gasp of horror and the roar his father proffered was enough to make him jump, and in the ballroom Draco started involuntarily, as if awakening, the glass underneath his body screeching unpleasantly against tee floor, digging into his back. He blinked slowly, but in his mind's eye he could still see his father rush towards him, face livid, so angry that for a second Draco thought he might strike him.

"You DO NOT speak the Dark Lord's name!" he roared. "You disrespectful-"

"Lucius!"

His mother rushed forward from where she had been sitting near the window to his back. And the Draco who lay on the floor momentarily hated the Draco in the study, who could feel her arms encircle him and see the concern in her wide eyes. Within the memory, he watched himself shy away from his mother, embarrassed by her affection, eager to stand tall and alone before his father. But Narcissa held her husband's gaze for a long, tremulous moment, until Lucius turned and walked away from them, fuming, his eyes fixed on the tapestry behind the desk once more.

His mother turned to him, but Draco kept his eyes on his father, whose tall figure stood still as stone across the room, and felt the resentment brimming in them. "Draco," his mother's gentle voice said in his ear, shaking only slightly. "You mustn't upset your father. You are yet too young to understand the reasons for why he followed the Dark Lord; but you must trust that they were for our well-being." She reached for his chin and he begrudgingly turned his face to look at her. "You know everything we have ever done has been for you."

Draco looked up at the roof of the ballroom and smiled, feeling his vision blur. The amusement he felt must be brought on by hysterics. He didn't care. His mouth moved and he felt himself speak in unison with his younger self, different tones, different times, different situations... "But I wasn't even born yet, Mother."

Yes, he had called her out on her lies then, and she had called herself out on them now. Liar. She couldn't even deal with what his father had left behind: not the business, not the Manor, not the trials, not even her own son.

Liar.

His voice was slurred as he said the word, and even more so as he cursed her in front of the empty hall and the sunlit windows. And his laugh was slurred, too, as he laughed out his grief as loudly as he could, hearing the echoes dance around the far-off corners of the ceiling, mixing with the sounds of his memories.

Again, Astoria and her impossible laugh seemed to dart among the pillars.

His trial was tomorrow.

"Go to hell," he sneered at nothing in particular. It could all go to hell.

All of it. All of them.

He reached up to rub his eyes with a surprisingly steady hand and felt the amusement leave him in a rush, as if it were escaping him on purpose, and he couldn't stop the gaping darkness that followed.

...

"Well, Miss Greengrass, I won't pretend I don't know what you're here about," said Minerva McGonagall as she moved to sit behind her desk, her posture almost regal as her midnight blue robes fell around the high-backed seat of the Headmistress.

She had aged swiftly in the past year, Astoria had noticed the moment the Headmistress had met her at the Entrance Hall. The lines on her face were more pronounced, and her once black hair was now considerably lined with silver. But her eyes were as piercing as ever and Astoria fought the urge to look away as the older witch surveyed her sternly from the other side of the desk.

Albus Dumbledore's old study had changed significantly over the last three years; not only during Severus Snape's reign over the school but also notably during McGonagall's years as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Once filled with gleaming oddities and unusual objects Dumbledore and his predecessors had collected, it was now a plainer yet equally stately place. Many of the small spindle-legged tables had given way to new shelves set in an orderly fashion that contained the prized possessions of past generations, and the neatly ordered quills and rolls of parchment on McGonagall's desk gave way to a slightly more austere look than it had had when Dumbledore had inhabited it.

Astoria had only been to that room once, in her second year, but the memory was was still clear in her mind. Her eyes were drawn to the Sorting Hat, where it sat at the top of its habitual shelf, and then to the large portrait of a sleeping Albus Dumbledore, who she somehow felt was watching her from over Professor McGonagall's shoulder despite his apparent slumber. The rest of the witches and wizards in the portraits also remained fast asleep… though Astoria had her doubts about Severus Snape, whose back was turned towards the room.

"Again, thank you for sparing the time to meet with me," Astoria said politely, forcing herself to hold McGonagall's stern gaze. It was hard to shake the feeling that she was some unruly student, brought to the Headmistress' office for a scolding.

"You're quite welcome," said McGonagall, giving her a thin-lipped smile as she watched her from over the rim of her spectacles. "I must admit I'm rather curious about how you plan to go about this case."

"Cases, actually. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about Narcissa Malfoy, as well."

The Professor merely raised an eyebrow as she waved her wand towards the tea set that hovered beside her desk. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," Astoria replied. She was much too nervous for tea. She hesitated briefly. "I was hoping you might share any impressions you might have had of Draco Malfoy during his school years."

McGonagall sipped her tea and then fixed her once more with her piercing gaze. "I'm afraid that if you're looking for information helpful to your side of the case, Miss Greengrass, I doubt any of my ideas will be of use."

She had expected such an answer, but felt her heart sink all the same. "Anything will do."

"Well, I suppose you remember him a bit yourself… you were in his House, after all."

"Yes, I was, but I was two years beneath him. I recognized him but paid him little attention."

Mc Gonagall nodded. "Well, I'm afraid that was the attitude most Slytherins had towards him. I have always suspected that Draco lost rather than gained from his family's reputation, and even more so from the education he received at home. When he reached Hogwarts, most of the school wouldn't talk to him because he was a Malfoy, and the rest would distance themselves as soon as they noticed what a… well, what a self-centered little brat he was." McGonagall's lips twitched, and she said the last part in a tone that made Astoria think that she may have wanted to say those words for years.

"He was respected, of course," the Professor continued after sipping her tea once more, the teacup held steadily in her firm grip. "I suspect the other students' parents instructed them to show some level of deference… even some of the teachers showed him more respect than he probably deserved," she pursed her lips chidingly. "But besides the two fools that followed him around like lost puppies, Draco hardly ever interacted with other Slytherins. I remember the staff was rather surprised at this; Lucius was always so popular in his years at Hogwarts."

"Did he ever show much interest in the Dark Arts?"

McGonagall looked pensive. "I wouldn't know such a thing," she said finally, "I would suggest that you speak to one of his Defense against the Dark Arts professors… but I'm afraid that, given the circumstances, such a thing is impossible." Her eyes seemed to linger a bit longer on the teacup in her hand, and she sniffed once before continuing. "What I can say, however, is this… if he ever did, then I don't believe it was out of malicious intent. If Draco Malfoy sought after the Dark Arts, then he did so merely for the attention."

"The attention?"

"He always struck me as a child desperate for his peers' approval, and even more so, his father's. In his second year, he all but bought himself a place in the Slytherin Quidditch team; the sheer persistence he had when bullying other students made it clear that he longed for the attention. Malice, I believe, calls for more subtle methods. Draco had a tendency to make a scene for the sole benefit of riling up his adversaries."

"Do you think it may have reached a point where that made him want to become a Death Eater?"

There was silence in the room. McGonagall set down her teacup and gave her a long stare.

"That is a very serious question, Miss Greengrass."

"This is a very serious case."

Her own words surprised her, and she almost regretted them as soon as she heard them. But McGonagall actually smiled for a second before leaning back in her seat, her eyes turned elsewhere. It struck Astoria that the Headmistress had lived through both Wars and seen the effects of both. How many once promising children had she watched turn to the Dark Side?

"I believe Draco desired his father's approval. His mother was a constant source of affection: she pampered him to no end, and sent him entire boxes of sweets during his first years here. It was ridiculous. But what little I did see of Lucius Malfoy in this school didn't strike me as particularly affectionate. And given Draco's immaturity and the closed, prejudicial bubble he seemed to live in, I would not be surprised to learn that he did it on his father's orders, or at any rate, in an attempt to please him."

Astoria nodded, her quill flying over the parchment before her as she jotted down notes of what the Headmistress said. But her mind was quick to remind her that McGonagall, unfortunately, was merely speaking her personal opinion, and in a courtroom her opinion would be easily dissected… it could even work against them. While studying accounts of previous war trials, Astoria had been stricken by the similarities Barty Crouch Jr.'s childhood had had with Draco's. The only difference between them was, perhaps, the level of rank the Malfoy family had had, a characteristic it did not share with the Crouch family.

If the Wizengamot came to compare the two, they would most certainly lose the case, notwithstanding the differences in the men's personalities. Their childhoods were all too similar.

"Did you ever see him do something that could prove that he had good intentions, or at the very least, not _bad_ intentions? Perhaps during the Battle…"

"He let Death Eaters into the castle in his sixth year," McGonagall said, her tone grave. "I hardly saw him after that."

Astoria could only nod at that, and she sighed as she looked over the parchment in her hands. "What about Narcissa?" she asked a moment later. "I believe you already taught here when she was a student."

"Yes. What do you want to know?"

The question didn't really have a clear answer. What questions could she possibly ask? There were so many. At least with Draco she had had conversation… with Narcissa she had nothing. She knew nothing about the woman.

"Can you think of any reason for her refusing to speak?"

McGonagall looked rather taken aback. "To whom?"

"To anyone."

The Professor eyed her oddly for a moment and then began to speak, slowly. "I have not seen her since she graduated. I was told she was at the Battle two years ago, but I have no memory of seeing her… which is understandable, really. So much was happening at once." Again, there was that grave look in her eyes that Astoria had learned to recognize in veterans of the Wars. "But in her years here, I was given the impression that out of the three Black sisters, she was the one who got the easiest youth."

She paused for a moment, frowning slightly. "Bellatrix was the eldest and therefore bore the greatest pressure from her parents. Everything was expected of her. Perhaps this added to her already disturbed mind. She was engaged to a boy she had no interest in liking, and was constantly pushed by her parents, who boosted her own ambition to ridiculous heights. Andromeda had it just as hard; her physical similarity to her sister and the small age difference was enough to make them expect her to excel just as much as Bellatrix did, and she responded to this with rebelliousness, even going as far as marrying a Muggle-born." She sighed sadly, but a smile was on her lips. "Andromeda is a wonderful woman, and her daughter inherited her good heart… but the fire she carries within her is very obviously Black.

"Narcissa, on the other hand, always struck me as a more passive child; she was already more of a Malfoy than a Black long before she married. Being the youngest, she carried less of the responsibility, and was instead highly valued by all that surrounded her for her fair looks. Here at Hogwarts she caused a flurry: the girl was such a pretty creature. Her nature was just as pampered as her looks deserved, however, and though she was intelligent, the intelligence was weighed down by a great amount of arrogance. Still, there was no _malice_ in her, as one found in her eldest sister. She was merely a result of her environment… very much as Draco is, I believe." McGonagall shook her head. "It's a sad thing that happens all too often in these circles."

"You mentioned that she sent her son sweets. Was she a very caring person?" Astoria couldn't help but be rather skeptical of this. Narcissa's stony silence gave every impression but that of a sweet, loving mother.

"I believe she is; or at any rate, she was in the years that I knew her, " the Headmistress scowled slightly. "It was nearly impossible to separate her from Lucius the year they became a couple. The two of them were reprimanded quite a few times… but I do believe she sincerely felt affection towards him. How much of that was as a result of the Black family's arrangements, I don't know, but Malfoy in that time was a more than suitable match for Narcissa. Her parents were proud, and she made sure everyone knew it. From the attitudes I saw in Draco, I believe she may have been rather _too_ caring when it came to her son… he was a bit more spoiled than usual. But, in the end… I suppose excessive spoiling is a more redeeming trait for a mother than neglect."

"How do you think she reacted to Lucius becoming a Death Eater?"

"I cannot say. But in those days Voldemort was very much a new fad, so to speak. None of us knew how serious the threat would become. Among many of the pureblood families, and even more so among most of the pureblood children… the so-called _Sacred Twenty-Eight… _to be a Death Eater was considered a great honor and a sign of power. I am sure Narcissa, along with nearly everyone around Lucius, thought it was a wonderful idea. But I know no real facts in that regard. As you know, I was the Gryffindor Head of House… hardly the person to have much insight into Slytherin gossip."

Still, there had been much insight, Astoria noted, and felt deep frustration at the fact that she couldn't interview the Head of House from those days. But the information may not really be relevant… the truth was that the only person living who could truly share a valid, credible testimony about Narcissa was Narcissa herself.

She sighed, and set her quill down, lifting her purse from the ground beside her. "Perhaps you have some suggestions of people I could speak to about these things? I'm very thankful for your help, Professor, but I'm in desperate need of an actual account of a situation of some sort that can support my position… especially about Draco Malfoy. I'm aware that Narcissa is a harder task."

"I understand," said McGonagall calmly. "But I'm afraid there aren't very many people in this school that could tell you stories of Draco Malfoy's kindness. He didn't make much of an effort to impress upon people how good-natured he was during his years here." She sighed. "I can only suggest that you speak to his classmates… they might have better insights into his person than I did."

"An acquaintance suggested I speak to Neville Longbottom… I hear he teaches here."

Professor McGonagall suddenly looked rather amused. "I'm afraid Neville Longbottom is _hardly_ the person to speak to when searching for pleasant tales about Draco Malfoy, Miss Greengrass. If anyone bore the brunt of his bullying harder than Potter, it was Neville. Still, if you really wish to speak to him, his office is located beside the greenhouses." She glanced at a large clock that hung just above the door behind Astoria. "In fact, I believe he is just finishing his class as we speak."

Astoria rose from her seat, and Professor McGonagall followed. They shook hands.

"Thank you for your collaboration," Astoria said. "The information you gave me will prove very helpful, I'm sure." She hesitated. "I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the importance of discretion…"

"I am aware of it. You have nothing to worry about," said McGonagall gravely, and she gazed at her kindly from behind her spectacles. "You always were a bright student, Miss Greengrass. I'm very pleased to see that you found a job that you enjoy. I trust that your next cases will be easier than this one, but you are more than skilled enough to tackle the Malfoy case; don't let anyone tell you you can't do it."

As she left the Headmistress' office, Astoria had to stop and lean against the wall just before the large Gargoyle that guarded the entrance. She had always admired McGonagall's fierce tenacity, and the effect the Professor's words of encouragement had had on her was positively refreshing. For the first time in weeks, Astoria almost felt all the confidence she had done her best to wear in front of others.

Taking a deep breath and scolding herself silently for her weakness, she brushed the treacherous tears from her eyes and made her way towards the Herbrology greenhouses.

She got there nearly fifteen minutes later; the heat of the bright sun reflected off of the windows of the castle as she made her way outside forced her to take off her cloak. She felt some pity for the students cooped up inside the stuffy greenhouses, wearing dragon hide gloves and thick protective robes. After all, she had always hated Herbology.

As she approached the doors she heard the voices of many people inside, and a few seconds later the doors opened and a stream of fourth years came out, some of them dusting their robes as they left. A few glanced at Astoria curiously, but she said nothing and instead waited for the path to clear before stepping into the greenhouse tentatively.

The familiar stuffy scent of dirt and plantlife hit her immediately and she had to walk past many rows of strange plants whose names she had never quite mastered before she could make out the figure of a tall, young wizard who was digging about one of the larger pots, where a plant with long leaves was poking about in his dark hair. He brushed it away a couple of times as he dug, and accidentally got hit in the eye with a particle of dirt. He cursed in a low voice.

Astoria cleared her throat.

Professor Longbottom turned swiftly, narrowly avoiding smashing his face against one of the overly affectionate plant's extended branches. He squinted at Astoria with one eye. "Oh, sorry," he said quickly, giving her an apologetic smile. "I didn't realize someone was here… how can I help you?"

As he fully regained his vision, she saw that he had brown eyes that were looking at her in such a friendly manner that she immediately felt comfortable speaking to him. She vaguely remembered him from school; the scar that stood out clearly on his cheek, bearing some resemblance to the one Astoria had seen on Hannah's jaw, was enough to make her recognize the student who had kept the Carrows chasing after the D.A. during what little of that hellish year at Hogwarts she had experienced. Even in the deep dungeons of the Slytherin common room in those days, word had spread.

She offered him a polite smile, which bore a bit more respect than it usually would have. "Professor Longbottom," she said, stepping forwards. "My name is Astoria Greengrass. The Headmistress was kind enough to tell me where to find you… I spoke to your fiancee earlier at the _Three Broomsticks _and she suggested I meet with you."

Longbottom looked at her with some surprise, but pulled his gloves off to shake her hand, his smile still sincere if slightly perplexed.

"Well, if Hannah pointed you my way then it must be for a good reason," he said blithely. "If you'll join me in my office..?"

Astoria nodded and followed him as he moved away from the large plant, patting one of its branches gently before making his way towards the back door of the greenhouse. She glanced at the plant with some distaste and it seemed to sense it, because it shied away from her immediately. Somewhat relieved, she reached the door and found herself in a small adjacent building that housed the office of the Herbology Professor. She hadn't even known it was there; after all, she had never truly spoken to her own Herbology Professor outside of class.

The room was almost as full of plants and tools as the greenhouse was, though stacked among the pots were piles of books, and in the center of the room was a desk covered in papers.

Longbottom chuckled at her expression. "My personal collection," he said, nodding towards the strange assortment of plants and cacti. "Ever since I left the house, my gran has made a habit of sending me curious specimens as gifts… and lately, so do other people who don't know what to get me. Thankfully, I actually enjoy it," he grinned. "Some of them can be pretty mischievous though, so you might want to stay away from them. Especially those two in the corner."

Astoria tried to mask the fact that she stepped away from the corner as swiftly as she could. If Longbottom noticed, he pretended not to.

"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing to a chair as he sat across from her behind the desk.

She sat, trying to shake the feeling that she was out of her depth among all the plant life. He looked at her expectantly.

"I'm a barrister," Astoria explained, moving to the point quickly. "I'm representing Narcissa Malfoy in her trials, and will be representing Draco Malfoy tomorrow in his."

Understanding spread across the Professor's face. "And you're looking for witnesses."

Astoria nodded.

Longbottom gave a low snort of amusement, though it sounded rather bitter. "And Hannah suggested you speak to _me_ for a testimony that could save Malfoy from Azkaban?"

"I understood that it's a bit strange, given the Headmistress' reaction to the idea."

He laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, it's a bit strange…" Leaning back in his seat, he exhaled softly and his expression grew more serious. "I don't know what to say to you, really. I would have thought you would speak to his Slytherin friends instead of me."

"He didn't have very many friends," Astoria said.

Longbottom frowned slightly. "Goyle, Nott, Zabini, Parkinson?"

"Goyle's already under house arrest for attacking Aurors, and his trial takes place in three weeks. Nott refused to testify on Draco's behalf. Zabini only just got clear and he's in Germany for the next two weeks. As for Parkinson… I'm planning on meeting her tonight but I don't expect to get very much."

"I see," he sighed. "Well… if you're expecting accounts that prove him a wonderful bloke then you'll be disappointed."

"I'm aware of that," Astoria replied. "I'm just looking for something he may have done, or not done, that proves that he didn't truly want to be a Death Eater."

"Well, the sad thing is that he always acted like one," Longbottom said with a grimace. "He made quite a bit of effort, too. He had everyone convinced that he was evil to the bone. Which doesn't help, now… but I suppose it made him feel powerful. When I was a kid, though, it didn't really feel that way. I thought he was the worst thing that had ever happened to me," he grinned. "Well, him and Snape… but I suppose in a way I was wrong about that, too."

"But there's a difference between being a bully and being a Death Eater," she said.

He nodded. "Yeah, there is…" he sighed. "I can't think of anything in particular… but I do recall feeling that Malfoy was acting different, in our sixth year. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I guess it must have been because he was a Death Eater by then. The way he treated people was different; not better, but different… it was like he always had his mind on something. He looked like he was always going to be sick," Longbottom smiled ruefully. "I remember because I hoped he would end up in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the year and wouldn't be around to bother me. But I guess that shows that he wasn't enjoying it. He didn't really look like he was enjoying anything."

Astoria nodded, and wrote down the information quickly. "Do you know anything else about the way he might have felt about being a Death Eater?"

"No," he replied. "At school I made an effort to avoid him."

"What about during the Battle of Hogwarts?" she glanced at his scar for the briefest of seconds. She had heard the stories. It was hard to believe that the tall wizard whose robes were covered with dirt and whose main occupation was caring after plants was the same wizard that had pulled the Sword of Godric Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat and killed the Dark Lord's gigantic snake.

"I didn't see much of him," said Longbottom almost apologetically. "I was in another part of the castle than he was, and later there were just so many things happening at once… I do remember seeing him with his parents once the battle ended. They were just sitting there, in a corner, for hours… the Order nearly missed them when they began rounding up Death Eaters." He shrugged. "You can ask anyone. It was strange. I guess they were kind of in shock."

She sighed, and was placing her quill back in the purse when he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! I know… maybe you should speak to Nick. I mean, Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost?"

Astoria looked at him with some confusion. "A ghost?"

"Yes," he answered. "I remember him saying something about Malfoy earlier this year. You should talk to him. He might be able to help you."

"I suppose I will then." She had never thought to speak to the ghosts. The Bloody Baron had never been much of a talker, anyway.

"I'm really sorry I couldn't be of much help," he said earnestly, his gaze sympathetic. "Malfoy may have treated me like dung during my time at Hogwarts, but I don't think he deserves a life sentence in Azkaban. I think he got in over his head. If I could help you more, I would."

"I understand," Astoria said, and smiled at him. As she averted her eyes, preparing to rise from her seat, her gaze was drawn to a newspaper that sat folded on top of a pile of parchment. It looked oddly neat in comparison to the mess that was his desk. Was her name in the headline again?

INVESTIGATION UNCOVERS UNKNOWN SUSPECT IN SCRIMGEOUR'S MURDER

It wasn't, but the title was interesting nonetheless. Longbottom saw where she was looking and shrugged rather awkwardly. "I haven't touched it. I'm rather sick of the _Prophet_, really, haven't read it for weeks… I get it mailed to me, but I usually just read the _Quibbler_. You can keep it if you want."

He took it and offered it to her, and his gaze was so earnest that she accepted it, folding it and placing it in her purse along with the parchment in her hand. "Thank you."

"No problem," Longbottom replied, and rose at the same time as she did, moving to escort her to the door. "I just hope I was of some help. I'll be keeping an eye on the case from now on… I hope everything goes well."

"So do I," she said, and shook his hand.

As she was leaving, the door of his office almost disappearing in the heavy foliage of the greenhouse, she heard his voice and she turned. Longbottom was still standing in the doorway, his expression sober.

"What's he like now?"

Astoria paused for a moment.

"Different," she said, and disappeared into the rows of plants.


	6. Chapter 6

Astoria was astonished at the luck she had in finding the Gryffindor ghost.

She had made her way towards the Great Hall after leaving the greenhouses, her mind fresh with memories of walking through the same corridors as a student, with Cecilia Fletcher at her side. It was a pity Cecilia had begun training as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries only a month ago, just before Astoria had found her chance to begin her career as a barrister; the Department of Mysteries demanded that its trainees have no contact with the outside world for the first three months of their training.

She tried to brush away the nostalgia that settled around her as she passed small crowds of students moving towards the Great Hall. It wasn't dinnertime yet, but she remembered using the valuable time after classes to do homework in the library or on the long House tables in the hours before the meals magically appeared. Perhaps the ghosts would be circling the area, eager for some interaction.

The first ghost she saw was hovering near a group of second year Hufflepuffs near one of the staircases, but she quickly recognized it as the Fat Friar. Making her way briskly through the corridor, she tried to ignore the curious looks the students shot her. Many of the older ones probably recognized her from last year, but she wasn't likely to know any of them very closely, and she was in a hurry. She couldn't afford to waste any time.

As she neared the Great Hall, she began to reconsider her strategy.

But she suddenly saw Nearly-Headless Nick just ahead, floating somewhat morosely over the heads of two students who didn't even seem to notice his presence.

Astoria had had encounters with ghosts in her early childhood, mostly because her great-great-great-great grandfather Silenus Greengrass was a ghost himself and often roamed about his old bedroom in an abandoned corner of the last floor of her house. Though rather full of himself and at times a bit tactless, he had been a good friend to her in the early years of her childhood, around the same time she had learned how to read.

As the years had passed, she had stopped visiting him so often, though she always greeted him when she could. Perhaps it had happened as a result of her disenchantment when she began to realize that some of his opinions were less based on facts and more born out of stubborn opinions of his own that he enjoyed imposing on people. But he still made a point of suggesting ancient books for her to read.

"It's the old ones that are the best, my dear," he used to say. "In my day, warlocks who wrote had less things to do with their time; therefore they put more thought into the words they wrote."

Nearing the area where the Gryffindor ghost floated, she raised a hand in an attempt to attract his attention, not too keen on the idea of calling out his name in the middle of an echoing corridor. Luckily, the ghost noticed her almost immediately, turning eagerly and floating down towards where she stood, his ruff shaking slightly as he offered her a bright smile.

"Good afternoon!" he exclaimed as he reached her. "How may I be of service?"

She had never seen him up close. He wore a ruff and tights, and his head wobbled slightly as he spoke, betraying his… well… Nearly-Headless-ness. The smile on his silvery lips was very different from the stern look old Silenus usually wore.

"Good afternoon," she answered politely. "You're the Gryffindor ghost, right?"

"Yes," he answered. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service." And he offered her a slight bow.

She gave a greeting nod. "I'm Astoria Greengrass. Professor Longbottom recommended I speak to you about an important matter I hope you could help me with."

"Oh, Neville pointed you my way?" Sir Nicholas seemed pleased, and he rose slightly in the air with pride. "I am honored. Of course, I will help in what I can."

"Thank you. Could we speak somewhere more private?"

The ghost nodded. "Certainly. There's an empty classroom nearby, if you follow me…"

She did, and she followed the gliding, silver figure of the ghost a short distance until they reached a door. He passed straight through it, and she pushed it open to find herself in one of the old Ancient Runes classrooms.

As she settled down on an empty chair, he floated lower until he almost looked like he was standing on the ground, though the tips of his shoes betrayed the truth as they disappeared into the stone.

Astoria quickly explained why she was there. "Professor Longbottom said that you might have something to say about Draco Malfoy that I might be able to use on his behalf during his trial tomorrow."

Sir Nicholas' eyes widened. "Trial? Oh dear… I suppose it's a difficult case to defend."

She nodded grimly. "It is."

The ghost sighed sadly. "Well, what I suppose Neville was referring to is a short anecdote I shared with him some months ago. It must have taken place during Malfoy's… second, perhaps third year." He suddenly started, as if he had had an idea. "But there is also another thing that comes to mind."

She held down her expectations, not wanting to get too excited. So far, she had had too many disappointments. But it _was_ possible that a ghost, despite being a Gryffindor, would have more insight into Hogwarts life than the students themselves. After all, the only thing ghosts did most of the time was lurk in corridors. If his story proved useful, Sir Nicholas could prove to be the perfect witness.

A ghost _could_ testify and be considered a reliable witness; at any rate, they were allowed to do so since 1811, when Grogan Stump classified ghosts as 'Spirits' and declared that they were able to _bear part of the responsibility in shaping Magical Law. _It wasn't often ghosts were present in trials, but Astoria supposed a special summoning could be arranged in that particular case.

And as Nearly-Headless Nick neared the end of his testimony, Astoria had to make a conscious effort to control the delight she felt. He would do perfectly. It was not, perhaps, what she had originally envisioned as part of the defense, but even as he spoke to her the ideas she had already had took shape in her mind and formed a discourse that she knew she could use successfully.

Well, it would only be successful if Macmillan didn't guess her angle. The issue of Barty Crouch Jr. still troubled her.

…

As the sunset began to throw its first orange rays into the sky, she found herself standing in her flat, her hand resting on the mantelpiece, eyes fixed on the bag of Floo Powder before her. She had thought to get some tea before doing anything else, but she was beginning to realize how short on time she was.

If only she hadn't used up so much of her time trying to get Narcissa to speak and trying to find a more fail-proof angle to use…

Well, it was too late now. Using two ghost witnesses wasn't the best she could do, but it was certainly better than having nothing at all. If only portraits could be witnesses… the image of Severus Snape's turned back in McGonagall's office filled her with frustration. But Magical Law was final; portraits could not be witnesses to trials: they were easy to subject to spells and they were merely recordings of a person's feelings and character, not a genuine replica of the person they had been. Ghosts, at the very least, had once been human kept memories of their lives.

It might have helped if the ghosts had been _alive_ during the time in which their stories had taken place, but it was the best she could do. And maybe she could have some more luck tonight.

But she doubted it.

Sighing and rubbing the tiredness from her eyes, she looked around her flat. The golden light made its way into the living room area through the thin windows that were enchanted to hide the inside from the sight of the people outside; she hadn't yet had the time to find suitable curtains for them. Her couch and armchair looked rather out of place in the still plain room, having come from an elegant house and now finding themselves covered in piles of papers and books that Astoria had collected only during the last few weeks. There was an alarming amount of teacups in the sink (more than plates, that was for sure), waiting to be washed, but she hadn't even had the time to use a cleaning spell on them. Well, she would find the time later. Today she had more important things to do.

She found herself wondering what Draco was doing at the moment. The image of him sitting half in the dark, his white-blonde hair the brightest thing in the shadowy ballroom, surrounded by dust and with a glass of scotch in hand had stuck with her. It was clear that he had more to worry about than only the case, and the thought filled her with frustration. What did he even do with all his time? He couldn't work, couldn't study, couldn't go out… and so he remained, locked in an empty Mansion with only a house-elf and a perpetually silent mother for company.

If only someone in the Malfoy family would make some effort to pull themselves out of the deplorable situation they were in.

The fire glowed stronger and she pocketed the wand she had been holding in her hand, ignoring a pressing collection of thoughts touching on the subject of Narcissa's steadily collapsing case. She had better things to do.

Pulling herself together, she threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and knelt, sticking her head into the flames as she called out the address.

She was momentarily choked by the smoke and soot, but eventually the green flames gave way to the sight of a large sitting room, elegantly decorated, the large chandelier throwing light onto the silver and gold cushions that covered nearly everything, including certain areas of the enormous carpets.

Daphne Greengrass looked up at the fireplace from where she sat on the loveseat, painting her nails idly, her golden curls falling about her shoulders.

"Astoria!" her voice was almost a whisper, her eyes wide, looking slightly scandalized. "What're you doing? Mother-"

"Oh, Merlin, is that Astoria?"

Astoria couldn't help an aggravated sigh from escaping her lips as a woman in rich emerald robes appeared, walking briskly towards where her head floated in the fireplace, her blue eyes just as wide as her eldest daughter's.

"Hello, Mother."

"I do hope your Flooing here is to let us know you're returning home at once," Mrs. Greengrass said, her expression chagrined.

"No, I'm afraid not," Astoria said calmly. "I was just-"

It was hopeless. Her mother let out a low shriek of despair. On the loveseat, Daphne smirked as she watched the scene.

"What did we do wrong, Astoria? You were such a promising young woman… and now your father is desperate because _his own daughter_ has abandoned him…"

"I haven't _abandoned_ him, Mother," Astoria said, though she knew nothing she said would change her mother's mind. "I just don't want to work with him. I like what I'm doing."

"Oh, and don't get me started on _that_," Mrs. Greengrass threw her hands up. "A _barrister_? A Greengrass, pure of blood, beautiful, clever…" behind her back, Daphne raised a cynical eyebrow. "…A _barrister?_ Such a lowly job. At the very least, if you were with a firm of some sort, led by some powerful pureblood family. But no. You move out of our home, you shun us and you go work with some gaggle of fools caring for criminals… I worry about you every day, Astoria. What is to become of you?"

"I haven't _shun_ you, Mother. Not wanting to live in the house, where it's practically impossible to work, especially with everyone already disagreeing with my career, is not _shunning_. I still come over for dinner each week, don't I?" Astoria sighed. "But anyway, I'm not here to talk about this… I want to speak to Daphne."

Mrs. Greengrass looked like she had many more things she wanted to say but prudently held her tongue, eyeing her daughters disapprovingly.

Daphne fixed her mother with a languid but pointed stare. "Mother, that means she wants you to leave us alone."

Muttering under her breath, the elegant woman departed, retreating to a couch farther off where she sat primly, still glancing at them now and then. Astoria avoided looking at her and focused instead on her eldest sister, who now looked more interested than scandalized by her presence.

"So, what do you want? You could have just written, you know… that way we could have avoided another one of Mother's seizures."

"I don't have the time," Astoria replied. "You take ages to write a letter, anyway."

"Oh, shut up," Daphne snapped. "It's not like we talk that much. What do you want?"

"I need Parkinson's address."

That surprised her. "Parkinson? _Pansy_ Parkinson? _You_ want to go visit _Pansy_?"

Astoria grimaced. "It's not a social call, if that's what you're wondering."

"Well what kind of catastrophe had to happen to make you ever want to get near her? I know you hate her."

"I don't hate her," Astoria said with a scowl. "I don't _like_ her, but I don't hate her either. And I need to speak to her. She's not answering my letters. It's business."

Daphne smirked, casting a drying spell on her bright blue fingernails. "Well, you do know she changed her last name… maybe that's what's stopping your letters from getting there."

"I'm not stupid, Daph."

Her sister shrugged. "She always was a lazy cow. That's probably why she hasn't answered."

"I thought she was your friend."

Daphne laughed. "Oh, she is. But she's still a cow. She's gotten boring lately, anyway; Sandra's _so_ much more entertaining. Pansy literally does nothing all day; there's only so much you can talk about when you spend your week locked up in a mansion with about a million bottles of wine."

Astoria eyed the clock that hung on one of the walls of the room. "I have to go. What's the address?"

"Are you comfortable in that little box of yours you call a flat?" Daphne asked, ignoring her. There was an amused gleam in her eye. "You must feel all _Muggle-born. _Maybe they'll start talking about your War heroics in Witch Weekly soon. Well, they _are-_"

"The address, Daphne."

Her sister sighed with exasperation. "All right, fine." She gave her the address. "Tell her I said hi," she added, beginning to work on her other hand. "And tell me how fat she's gotten, later."

Astoria ignored the remark and glanced at her now distracted mother. "Say goodbye to Mother for me later; I'd rather avoid another confrontation. And give my love to Father."

Daphne nodded absently, and Astoria pulled her head out of the flames.

…

The doors swung open and Astoria stepped into the vast entrance hall, trying not to drag her feet the way she wished she could. There was something about the richly embroidered oriental rugs of Julien Prince's new mansion that made her acutely aware of the fact that her dark, simple robes really weren't elegant enough to follow the traditional code of etiquette that was usually important when visiting this kind of homes.

"But I'm here on business," she told herself as she looked up at the high ceiling that curved above her. It was an unusual design that she had never seen anywhere else: not as many pillars and square entrances as she was used to seeing in other rich, pureblood homes. The Prince family had only now emerged from its silence, having lurked in the sidelines of the Wizarding World for decades with their unremarkable publishing firm. But with the end of the War, the rather elderly heir of the family fortune seemed to have managed affairs well, and Julien Prince was starting to be known as the richest, if rather unremarkable, wizard in England... a fact that had always seemed rather suspicious to Astoria, who couldn't help but be wary of a person who had profited from the War, but Mr. Prince, to her knowledge, remained a quiet gentleman nearing his seventieth year who spent most of his fortune on exotic artifacts and apparently had no interest in meddling with Ministry affairs; which was a good thing, she supposed.

She heard footsteps and looked up at the regal staircase that stretched out overhead, lit with white lanterns that floated midair. An elf had already greeted her at the entrance and after disappearing for a brief moment, returned with the words "Mrs. Prince will see you now." Astoria tried to keep the distaste from showing in her expression.

Pansy Prince, once Pansy Parkinson, stopped short at the top of the stairs and looked down at her with some surprise, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Well, I wasn't expecting _this_ Miss Greengrass."

Astoria smiled coldly. "Hello, Pansy."

Pansy had her hair up in a bun that was slowly coming apart despite the efforts of the jeweled pins that were stuck in it. Her lips gleamed with a heavy beauty charm as she gazed at her guest with a raised eyebrow.

"What're you doing here?" she asked, sounding bored, though Astoria could see a glint of curiosity in her eyes as they flit up Astoria's body, lingering on her plain black robes. "_Evidently_ this isn't a social visit." The _you'd be dressed better if it was_ went unsaid.

"I sent you about half a dozen letters," Astoria answered dryly.

Pansy shrugged, leaning against the banister lazily. She waved a languid hand, her large wedding ring throwing tiny reflections of the lights onto her face. "I don't really open mail lately. It's mostly just Julien's rubbish."

And from what Astoria had heard, the large quantities of imported wine her husband procured for her did little to help her keep track of her mail. She sighed. "I'm here about Draco Malfoy."

Interest flared in Pansy's eyes, and she straightened, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Oh, right… you're _doing business_ with him now, aren't you… let's go to the sitting room; here's _awfully_ uncomfortable for talking."

Pansy turned and made her way back up the stairs, glancing at Astoria over her shoulder to make sure she was following. Astoria did, her feet lingering on the steps a bit longer than usual as she moved towards the second floor. The colorful paintings that hung on the walls of the corridor that branched from the staircase did little to dissipate her dread of being forced to spend time with Pansy after an exhausting day.

And as she stepped into the richly decorated sitting room she was stunned by the prevalence of green and silver everywhere. She didn't even try to hide the surprise. Pansy smirked as she threw herself onto one of the couches, kicking off her embroidered slippers.

"Julien made them make this one for me. Reminds you of the Common Room, doesn't it?" she looked around her idly. "I suppose I sort of miss it. Here's _much _nicer, though."

Astoria hesitated slightly as she watched Pansy occupy herself with a copy of _Witch Weekly_. Finally, she sat down on a nearby armchair with a slight scowl. She was torn between speaking at once and letting Pansy stay silent for just a little bit longer, giving her some instants of peace...

But her indecision didn't last long. With a loud crackle of folding papers, Pansy thrust the magazine towards her folded on a page, her lips curled into a smirk, though there was something strange in her expression that made Astoria uncomfortable.

She glanced at the magazine and almost instantly averted her eyes. The title and the picture of her leaving the Atrium with Draco and Narcissa in the background was enough…

"_Client or lover_?" Pansy read in a high voice, and tossed the magazine to the ground. A House-Elf appeared immediately to remove it. Her eyes bored into Astoria's. "Being naughty, are we, little Astoria? I didn't think you'd turn out worse than your sister. By the way, is she still shagging that Avery bloke?"

Astoria ignored her. "I need a witness for Malfoy's case."

Pansy said nothing for a moment, the smirk still on her lips as she surveyed her in silence. Astoria did her best not to react beneath her stare, and held her gaze.

Finally, Pansy leaned back against the cushions, one of the jeweled pins almost slipping out of her hair entirely. She pursed her lips before she spoke. "I suppose you mean Draco."

"Yes."

"Did he send you here?"

"No."

Pansy looked away. "I don't know what you're looking for, then. You and I both know what Draco did; what his whole family did." She sniffed. "They broke the law; they pay the consequences. He's guilty so he's going to have to pay for it."

Astoria found her fingers curling forcefully around the ruffles of one of the cushions. "You and I both know it's much more complicated than that."

"They were Death Eaters; they got caught." Pansy's eyes were still averted. "Draco should have known better than do all those things."

Astoria snorted. "He should have known better? Don't try to pretend you lived through the War without-"

"My family was cleared," Pansy snapped.

"How long is that going to last?"

Pansy's eyes wandered back to Astoria's face, and she couldn't quite mask the fear that was latent there. Astoria leaned forwards, her hand still clutching the cushion. "How long is it going to be before they find evidence against you? Maybe you won't be imprisoned long… a year or two, maybe. Maybe your husband can pay them off. But what about your brother?"

"If I go down, so does your sister."

The words escaped Pansy in a rush, her face pale, breath coming in quick bursts. Astoria tried not to flinch. She had suspected that Daphne had been involved in something during her school years; she was too close to Pansy and she had heard the quiet rumors that flitted behind the closed doors of pureblood families, the slight suggestions from things her sister's friends murmured about under their breaths… the Parkinson family was not entirely innocent.

But then again, Astoria wasn't entirely sure the Greengrass family was, either.

"I know," she bit out. "And I don't want to know anything about it."

Pansy shrugged nervously. Her eyes were wide and the movement was almost a convulsion, but when she spoke, her tone was forceful. "I'm not getting anywhere near the Ministry. They have nothing on me and they won't. I was a child-"

"So was Draco."

On the couch, Pansy was shaking, and she averted her eyes again, speaking in a low voice. "I don't want to go to Azkaban."

"I know you don't. That's exactly why you need to testify. If I can get Draco out of this mess, there'll be a precedent set for any future cases."

"Zabini got cleared."

"Zabini was lucky," Astoria snapped. "And he hadn't done anything. Can you say the same about yourself? You need Draco to win this case."

In a swift movement, Pansy sat up straight and set her feet on the ground, moving her eyes back to Astoria. Her expression had been put back together, though Astoria could see uncertainty lingering beneath her gaze. "I don't _need_ _anything_, Greengrass," she said coldly. "My husband is _rich_ and if any of this falls on me I'll get out of it. I didn't even do anything that bad. I'm not going anywhere near the Wizengamot. I think you should leave now."

Astoria felt anger seize her, but she forced it down. She had suspected it, but her expectations hadn't helped cushion the full blow of Pansy's self-centered idiocy. Pansy wouldn't even stand up for Daphne in court.

Her eyes cold, she stood up, throwing the cushion back onto the armchair. She grabbed her purse and moved towards the door.

"I hope you're right about your husband," she said coldly, stopping in front of Pansy's couch. "And I hope, for your sake, that my sister doesn't bear the brunt of your idiocy during the War. But mark my words, if Draco loses this case, you'll be next in the trials."

Pansy flew to her feet. "I don't give a fuck about Draco Malfoy," she said heatedly. "All he's ever been is a stuck-up, selfish bastard. He didn't take help when I offered it; he's on his own now. So _good luck_, Astoria Greengrass. Send him my regards."

Astoria said nothing and was almost at the door when Pansy called after her again. "And next time, don't come traipsing into my house thinking you're any better than the rest of us because you're sleeping with a Malfoy. Those days are over. The Malfoy name was dead the moment he pushed a Parkinson away."

Astoria almost laughed through her disgust. But she couldn't ignore the weight of the knowledge that Draco Malfoy was now officially friendless. He would have to face the Wizengamot alone, with no living witness.

* * *

**A/N: I'm really, really, really sorry for how long I've been taking to update! Life has been piling things on me and these last few weeks I've been having trouble finding a computer to use... But I'm always busy writing, so though I might be a bit late, I'm definitely not abandoning this story! Thank you for the reviews, it really encourages me to know that people are reading. Please don't stop! I love hearing feedback. Thanks for reading!**


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